Devil in the Light
by xfphile
Summary: Devils don't always come out at night. Angels don't always have wings. And expectations, like battle plans, rarely survive first contact.
1. The Postman Always Rings Twice

Alright, time for the Long Note of Authorial Rambling: Like most people, I fell in love with Miss Fisher by way of the Australian TV show and promptly began craving fic. Simultaneously, I felt the call to write and behold: FIC! was born.

I started writing this at the conclusion of S02E07 (Blood at the Wheel), so it promptly got Jossed. Therefore, there will be minor spoilers for all episodes up to the credits for BatW, but it goes AU after that, so there's no mention of subsequent episodes. Also, this has been superbly beta'd by the incomparable Firebird9 (so go read her stuff, because it is made of awesome!).

Reviews are awesome, especially concrit. All I ask is that you be respectful.

And that's it: I'm done rambling. This story is complete and updates will be daily, with 7 chapters.

Oh! Key chart: * * * * = POV change;  
* * = scene change/break within the same POV

**DEVIL IN THE LIGHT  
**

Had an unsuspecting eavesdropper heard the conversation that took place between the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher and the equally honourable Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, they would very likely have wondered if they had, by some strange misfortune, stumbled into a rather modernized Shakespearean play (or an affair, but the sensibilities of the time meant that while the aforementioned eavesdropper would have assumed the latter, she would have only spoken of the former.

Well, in public.).

"Jack . . ."

"Unless you want me to take you on this lounge, we need to adjourn to a room. Now."

"Why, Inspector, I would never have guessed that you might be an exhibitionist."

(There was a long pause. An unknowing listener might (would) have taken it for shock.)

"Well, Miss Fisher, I distinctly recall telling you it would be foolish to assume you'd deduced everything about me."

(There was another long pause. Said listener would have thought this one to be assessing (they would have been right.)).

"So you did. Well, then, as I'd like to avoid giving your constable a heart attack —"

"I'd feel better if I thought you were being facetious."

"— did you have anything more specific in mind than 'a room?'"

"Given you came with an entourage, yes. Mine."

"Jack! I like the way you think."

"The way I think. Yes, _that's_ what you like."

"Well. One thing."

(At this, the rather stunned eavesdropper (had there been one, which, of course, there wasn't) would likely have keeled over in scandalized shock,)

"Phryne. I . . . I have wanted this – you – longer than I should admit, but if you don't step back _now_, we will both be arrested for more indecency charges than can be counted. Please, love, have mercy on me for another five minutes. Then you may do with me as you will."

"Promise?"

"With every fiber of my being."

"In that case, Inspector Robinson, lead the way."

"I'd rather escort you. For some unfathomable reason, Miss Fisher, I don't trust you."

"Probably wise."

"A rarity with you."

"And you love it."

"God help me, I do. But – somewhere more private, if you please, Miss Fisher."

"Oh, fine. But one day, Jack, I am going to make you crack."

"Indeed. And what if I were to tell you, Phryne Fisher, that that day arrived the moment I came through that door?"

(and now the eavesdropper, had they recovered from their scandalized shock, would have been confused. Also, curious, especially as another long pause ensued.)

"In that case, Jack Robinson, I would say 'why are we still a) outside and b) talking?'"

"As always, Miss Fisher, you ask very good questions. As for the answers, I can only say that I was trying to be a gentleman."

"Jack – "

"Until I realized that I was only causing us both unnecessary grief. And, because the heavens would fall if you let me lead, you came to me first."

(there was a beat of silence at this and the listener leaned closer, desperate not miss anything)

"Then we proceeded to have this rather ridiculous conversation."

"Oh, come now, Jack. Haven't you heard of foreplay?"

(the eavesdropper was so enthralled at this point that she forgot to be scandalized. Even (especially) when the man's voice dropped to a husky growl.).

"My room. _Now."_

(it was a shame that the eavesdropper who wasn't would never know the truth about the couple she was inadvertently listening to: the year or so of courtship (so to speak); the simple case of a sister running from an arranged marriage; the horrifying truth behind her disappearance; the desperate love of a man, given full rein in its fury; the vulnerability of a woman who finally began to understand that love didn't have to be a curse to be avoided at all costs; and the realization (in retrospect, and obvious to _everyone _but them) that feelings do not fade away simply because they're inconvenient.)

* * * *  
_8 days earlier_

Tobias Butler was unable to suppress the spike of hope in his chest when someone knocked on the door just after half-past nine that Thursday evening. Being Miss Fisher's butler gave him an unprecedented amount of freedom with regards to the truly private goings-on in the house (which was something that very, very few people in her position would have even thought to contemplate, much less allow; the scandals of the upper class were as fiercely guarded as the privilege), so he was well aware of the fact that his mistress's detective had made an understandable – though unwise, in all respects – decision regarding his relationship with her after the unfortunate incident regarding that poor racing car driver nearly two months prior.

Indeed, it was patently obvious to Tobias that Detective Robinson was somewhat out of his depth, if not well on his way to drowning. He was noticeably attracted to Miss Fisher, which, to all appearances, he had no issue with; in fact, to Tobias' experienced eye, he had greatly enjoyed that aspect of things: flirting, matching wits, even going out (or staying in) on 'dates'. The deepening of that initial attraction into genuine affection hadn't seemed to bother him either . . . though that was where the trouble had begun. The good detective, being a product not only of his class, but also his profession and his personal circumstances (abandoned after the war, then divorced only when the woman he had loved found someone 'better'), had honestly remained unaware of the depth of his feelings – until he had thought Miss Fisher dead in what had at first appeared to be a senseless accident. The revelation that he had gone and fallen in love with Phryne Fisher had shaken him to the core.

Tobias didn't blame the man in the slightest for being taken aback. He didn't even blame him for wanting to reassess his situation with Miss Fisher. What made her butler angry was the fact that instead of sharing any of these observations with her, Robinson had instead simply told her his feelings were serious, told her he didn't want – would never ask – her to change . . . and then walked away, giving her no real chance to express herself in return. He hadn't been to the house since.

Miss Fisher was, if not precisely devastated, extremely hurt, somewhat angry, and sublimating her own feelings (of love, though she would deny that to her dying day) into a rapidly increasing number of men. In addition, she had also become truly reckless when it came to the cases she took on and her personal safety, to the point that not only was her household concerned, but Doctor MacMillan as well. She had actually come by the house one day while Miss Fisher was out to talk about that very thing – and had to be forcibly restrained from marching straight to the police station and telling the inspector precisely what manner of fool he was . . . before exacting her revenge by way of a very creative use of a scalpel.

Unfortunately, though Miss Fisher was considerably less strict and formal with her house, she was still their mistress. The only thing any of them could do was keep a closer eye on her if possible. In fact, the presence of Mr Johnson and Mr Yates had been the only thing that had kept Miss Fisher from serious, lasting harm on four separate occasions – and to the best of their knowledge, she was unaware of this. Which was concerning in its own right, given how observant she was as a matter of course.

Even Dot was no help, because her beau was also the inspector's constable and right-hand man. They hadn't stopped seeing each other, but it had been a near thing, and the young man seldom came by the house anymore due to his own conflicting loyalties – not only did he have the inspector and young Dorothy, but he was also fond of Miss Fisher (and she of him), but his duty and allegiance to Inspector Robinson took first precedence with him. Tobias understood that, and so did Dot, but it did make things a damned sight more difficult for everyone.

So, when the door sounded far past an hour when 'decent' folk were out and about, Tobias entertained the serious hope that it was Miss Fisher's inspector, come to his senses. The sight of a man with thinning brown hair, a broad frame that had once been muscular but was now running to fat, and a bespoke suit that had been well-tailored to him, trampled that hope under disappointment that he kept locked down. A case, then.

"Good evening, Sir," he greeted the man neutrally, taking in the arrogance that people of nobility tended to exude as a matter of course. "May I help you?"

The other man nodded, holding out a black-embossed white card. "Bryce Hamilton. I'm here to see Miss Fisher."

Tobias took the card and stepped back, letting the man into the foyer. "Please excuse me while I see if she's available," he murmured before walking into front parlour. She was curled up on the sofa, barefoot, wearing a black robe decorated with colorful exotic birds over a simple outfit of solid black, and nursing a martini. At the sound of his footsteps she looked up, and the lifeless expectation in her eyes made his anger at Robinson flash for a brief moment. It flared hotter when the hopeful, happy fire that chased the dullness away when he told her she had a visitor extinguished to ashes at the revelation of the man's name. Her palpable disappointment made her usually imperturbable butler actually want to hit something (someone), but he again controlled his reaction. It would help no one, least of all her.

"Shall I send him in, then, Miss?" he asked gently, honestly not sure what he wanted her answer to be.

She contemplated this for a long moment before nodding, taking a long drink of her martini and setting it aside. "No tea, though, Mr Butler," she answered. "I find I'm not in the mood to entertain this evening."

Tobias strangled the relief he felt at her caveat; maybe she was ready to stop punishing herself for something she'd truly had no control over.

"Very well, Miss," he said and stepped back to the door, gesturing Mr Hamilton into the parlour.

* * * *  
The dull pain that accompanied Mr Butler's announcement of a visitor who wasn't Jack came as no surprise to Phryne; indeed, it had become a familiar ache over the past several weeks. Since he had walked away from her and that precious something they had started to build, Phryne found herself vacillating between hurt, anger, and an admittedly childish desire to thumb her nose at him. She knew full well that her house was worried but the loss cut deep, because she had lost not only someone she cared strongly about in a romantic sense, but also a good friend. As a result, she found herself feeling adrift and anchorless, and taking risks even she normally would have thought twice about. Part of her was irritated that a _man_ had brought her to this state, but most of her was in mourning.

This was not a healthy combination.

Hearing her visitor's footsteps coming toward her pulled her wandering thoughts back to the present and she schooled her features to impassivity before looking up at him.

He was only an inch or so taller than her, with a once-muscular frame softening all around. His hair was a rather muddy brown, and his face unremarkable, though she detected faint signs of what might have been long-ago good looks; his eyes were nearly the same colour as his hair, his nose had been broken at least twice, his jowls were heavy, and he had no chin to speak of (or several chins, depending on how you looked at it). Crafty intelligence was in his eyes, along with a thin veneer of concern. Phryne couldn't begin to fathom what had brought him to her door and despite herself, she was curious.

"Good evening, Miss Fisher," her visitor greeted her, offering his hand as he approached. She took note of the rather rough tone of his voice, falling somewhere between a low tenor and a light baritone. Interesting. He seemed to be unremarkable in every way, despite the fine tailoring of his suit, and something about that realization made her instincts chime a soft warning.

"Good evening, Mr Hamilton," she replied, accepting his proffered hand and observing both the weak handshake and the slightly clammy feel of his skin. So. He was nervous. This was becoming more intriguing by the moment. "How may I help you?"

He looked slightly taken aback at not being offered a seat but rallied quickly.

"It's a fairly straight-forward matter, Miss Fisher," he told her. "My sister Iris is due to be married Saturday next, and she's done a runner."

Phryne blinked. That hadn't been what she expected. Still, it was a diversion and if he spoke the truth, it would be an easy, welcome distraction. She needed more information.

"Why do you assume she's done a runner?" she inquired, gesturing him to a chair. He seated himself before speaking again.

"Well, for one, nothing's missing, destroyed, disheveled, or otherwise disturbed. Two, we've received no ransom demand of any sort and she's been gone over a day. And three, Iris isn't exactly . . . fond . . . of her fiancé. She's not happy that I'm insisting on the marriage."

About to speak, Phryne caught herself before opening her mouth. This . . . there was something _off_ here, but she was dashed if she could hang her hat on what it was. Maybe this wouldn't be as easy a diversion as she was expecting (though no less welcome).

"Insisting?" she asked, keeping her disdain at his expected reply out of her voice.

For the first time, Hamilton looked uncomfortable. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Mmm. It was a match our parents arranged several years ago, and though they've passed away, I've decided against dissolving the betrothal."

"So . . . it's an arranged marriage," Phryne stated flatly, some of her disapproval leaking through despite her best effort and causing Hamilton to flush.

"Yes," he said after clearing his throat in an awkward silence.

Phryne let it stretch out until the man actually started to perspire before asking her next question.

"And if I do find your sister and bring her back, what will become of her betrothal, Mr Hamilton?" she coolly inquired, arching an eyebrow at him.

To her surprise, his nervousness faded and he straightened in the chair. Resolve she hadn't yet seen filled his eyes as he steadily met her gaze.

"That, Miss Fisher, will depend on her reason for leaving. You may not approve of arranged marriages, but there are good reasons for this one – reasons that you do not need to know. But if marrying Harold Fenton will truly make her miserable, then of course the betrothal will be dissolved.

"Now," he continued, holding her eyes with a surprising intensity. "Will you take the case? I'm prepared to pay £75 per day if you find her by next Friday."

Phryne took a few moments to consider everything she'd seen and heard, weighing her nameless suspicion against the persistent absence of Jack, and comparing her slow realization that haring off on every trail someone offered her wasn't conducive to remaining in good health against the welcome respite from an ever-deepening depression and a not-inconsiderable fee.

It was the depression that tipped the scales.

"Of course, Mr Hamilton," she said confidently, holding out her hand. "I will find your sister."

(maybe then, Janey's spirit would stop whispering in her ear)

* * * *  
Dot couldn't suppress her sigh when Miss Fisher strolled into the breakfast room the next morning. She was dressed to kill, in a glorious blue-and-rose ensemble that made Dot wish yet again that she had the confidence to wear clothes like that. Her sigh, though, was for the gleam in the other woman's eyes. Once upon a time (two months ago), that gleam had been slightly wicked with a healthy dose of excitement, and bubbling over with anticipation. Now, it was comprised almost entirely of glee, only it was a manic sort of glee, underpinned with a desperate desire to prove that she needed no assistance. Or a partner.

Dot experienced yet another urge to smack Inspector Robinson (each one got more overwhelming, to the point that she truly feared attempting to harm the man if she saw him again).

Still, Mr Butler had shared that Miss Fisher had shown both restraint and consideration before accepting this case, so it was possible (please, God, let it be possible) that the mistress they all adored was making her way back to them. And for that, Dot would do anything.

"Good morning, Miss," she said with a sunny smile, pouring Miss Fisher a cup of tea and adding her usual accoutrements.

"Good morning, Dot!" Miss Fisher chirped back with a return smile, seating herself with an effortless grace that Dot also couldn't help but envy. "Did you have any plans for today?" she inquired as she buttered a piece of toast and took a small bite.

Dot shook her head and took a piece for herself, spreading a rich blackberry jam on it. "No, Miss, other than your laundry, and I can do that anytime."

"Good," her mistress said with satisfaction, finishing her toast and taking a long sip of tea. "Then go change once you're done eating; we're going to the Hamilton estate and they tend toward – well, remember Aunt Prudence's home?"

At Dot's wary nod and pained expression, Miss Fisher grinned. "Exactly. Only worse, because it's headed by a rather stuffy male. So, appropriate dress; I've made arrangements to meet him at 11:30."

"Very well, Miss," Dot said, mentally ticking through her wardrobe.

"And Dot? Make sure it's something you can wear and still get information out of the household staff. Something about this situation is off, but if the family knows they certainly aren't telling."

"Of course, Miss," Dot replied. Well, that certainly helped narrow down her available options. She gave Miss Fisher's clothes another look and decided on her rose and brown suit; it would be a good complement to the blue and rose.

At 10:15 they were on the road, and Dot irrationally found herself concerned when Miss Fisher's driving was almost . . . calm. She didn't want her mistress subdued, just not as insanely reckless as she had been (and there was another urge to shake the inspector; maybe she should be keeping score). Still, she said nothing, determined to at least enjoy not being ill when the car stopped. Heaven only knew how long this would last.

They arrived at the door a few minutes early and were greeted by a sneering, haughty butler who gave Miss Fisher one cold look before deigning to usher her in. Knowing what was required of her, Dot bit down on the desire to take the man to task and hunched down a bit, recalling her life with the Andrews in order to look downtrodden. For a moment she thought it hadn't worked, as the butler's expression didn't change, but then Miss Fisher shoved coat, hat, and purse at her without so much as a word, and icy condescension softened to commiserating sympathy.

"Tell Mr Hamilton that Miss Phryne Fisher has arrived," she said authoritatively, sweeping into the parlour.

The contempt came back but the man did as he was instructed, giving a short bow before heading off to find his master. It was a measure of how upset he was (though whether it was Miss Fisher herself, women in general, or the upper class at large, Dot had no clue; that was definitely one of the things she would need to find out) that he didn't try to offer refreshments. The moment he was out of earshot, Miss Fisher turned to her companion and smiled triumphantly.

"Well played, Dot!" she exclaimed softly, stepping close. "That attitude didn't spring up overnight, so be careful – and say what you need to. I won't be hurt or offended, I assure you."

The thought of speaking ill of Miss Fisher didn't sit well, but Dot supposed she could simply pretend that she still worked for Lydia Andrews. As long as she remembered the right name, that would likely work, particularly if the butler's reaction was any indication.

"I'll do my best, Miss," she quietly replied. "How do you want me to proceed?"

Miss Fisher tapped a finger against her lips and gave it a few seconds' thought before nodding decisively. "Once I get into Iris' room, head to the servant's area and tell them I want tea – or, if there's a pot ready, something else. Keep them busy and play on their resentment. It should prove enlightening."

It took considerable effort not to shake her head at the enthusiasm in her mistress' voice, but Dot managed. "And how long will you need?"

"Oh, fifteen minutes at least," Miss Fisher replied. "And if it takes too much longer than that, you can always take the tray back."

That was true enough, so Dot nodded before stepping back at the sound of footsteps, doing her best to become one with the wall. It seemed to work, as Mr Hamilton took no notice of her when he strode through the door.

"Miss Fisher," he said jovially enough, bringing her hand to his lips. Unnoticed, Dot frowned slightly; something about the act seemed wrong, though it could simply be that she had become accustomed to Miss Fisher's usual class of gentleman, who were genuinely glad to see her. Still, it was something else to inquire about.

In short order, she and Miss Fisher were being led into the private suite of one Iris Hamilton. It was a surprisingly – well, girlish, set of rooms, given that she was the elder sibling and thus, at least 35 years old. It seemed her list of inquiries was getting longer by the minute.

Once Mr Hamilton had left them to their own devices, Dot waited only a few minutes before slipping out the door and heading for the servants' stairs (like most estates, this one was laid out with a 'proper' front and an 'employee' back). She was met with suspicion by the two maids who were currently in the kitchen, but by keeping her memory of Lydia Andrews firmly in her mind, she managed to gain a few inklings of sympathy surprisingly quickly.

By the time fifteen minutes had passed, she'd been accepted into the Servants' Club (she wondered briefly whether they had yearly dues and meetings). Having been trained by Miss Fisher in the art of observation by word and deed, the amount of information she managed to amass was both startling and unsettling. Among other things, she learned that all but one of the current servants had been inherited from the parents; Bryce Hamilton was cordially and thoroughly loathed by all of them, following in his mother's footsteps; the upper class in general was disliked and distrusted (see: the Hamiltons' parents); Iris was pitied (though not particularly liked); she was also in love with Harold Fenton's younger brother Donald; and her disappearance was surprising, as she had a rather placid personality. On the other hand, both maids – and the butler, when he popped in for a quick drink – agreed that Bryce was such a tyrant, it was possible she'd simply snapped – and no, she didn't have any friends that they knew of who would house her . . . though it was possible she might have sought refuge with Donald.

Oh, and despite the house being fully staffed (one butler, two stablehands, a cook, and three maids), Bryce had gone and acquired a new girl. Officially, she was a maid, but disliked by the rest of the household because her only 'responsibilities' were his personal rooms: bedroom, office, and library. Dot found it somewhat odd that they resented her more for her attitude about being mistress to the master of the house than because she did virtually no work (though that did rankle, judging by the fulminating looks they all got when she asked) until she remembered John Andrews.

A quick glance at the clock by the door told Dot she'd been gone almost a half hour and she grabbed the plate of scones before leaping to her feet, a rushed apology tumbling from her lips. The head maid, Helena, _tsk_ed in sympathy and shooed her off.

"Go take care of your mistress, Dot, and don't worry about getting the plate back. Just leave it on the dressing table," she said as Dot hurried out the door.

Miss Fisher was just finishing up when Dot entered the room, and she turned with an expectant look.

"Well?" she demanded eagerly, absently grabbing a scone and taking a bite. "Did it work?"

After a quick, furtive look around, Dot nodded. "But – it should wait until we're back in the car, Miss."

This earned her two arched eyebrows, but Miss Fisher said nothing; she merely finished her scone as she took a last look around. Once she was satisfied she'd gleaned everything of interest, she nodded to Dot and stepped into the hall, heading for the front stairs. Dot hurried after her, before going back to set the plate of scones on the table. By the time she caught up, Miss Fisher was farewelling Mr Hamilton.

" –d to come back?" she was asking as Dot came within earshot.

"Of course," Mr Hamilton replied. "Just let me know when."

Miss Fisher smiled, but there was no warmth behind it – though Dot didn't think Mr Hamilton realized that.

"Superb," she murmured. "Then we shall be off and I'll be in touch. Dot!"

Having had a few minutes of preparation, Dot had the requisite hat, coat, and purse waiting, and with a minimum of fuss, they were out the door and into the car. No sooner had they left the Hamilton property itself than Miss Fisher looked at her, an eager expression on her face.

"Well?" she demanded, her eyes alight with interest.

Dot's stomach growled before she could answer and her mistress smiled. "Hold that thought; we'll stop for lunch and you can tell me then."

As Miss Fisher had superb taste in eating establishments, Dot had no quarrel with this and settled back in her seat for the ride.

* * * *  
Once she and Dot arrived back home, Phryne sent the younger woman off on her own pursuits before settling down in her study and beginning her case file (it was something she'd picked up from Jack, building a file for each investigation, and it had proven irritatingly useful). It took her about twenty minutes to write down everything she'd learned from Bryce Hamilton, her inspection of Iris' suite, and the information Dot had gathered from the servants. That done, Phryne left the desk for the chaise by the window, kicking off her shoes and settling herself sideways on the plush cushion, drawing her knees to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. Her gaze went distant as she let the data she had accumulated simmer in her mind, hoping a pattern would coalesce or the next step become obvious.

When she finally had an inkling of what to do next, Phryne was startled to see that more than an hour had passed. She went back to her desk to make a few notes before realizing that she had no idea whether or not Donald Fenton had any accommodations separate from the family dwelling. Absently, she dialed the operator and was waiting for the call to City South to be picked up before she remembered that she no longer had Jack as a partner resource. With a muttered curse, she put the receiver down with more force than was strictly warranted. Jack had made his choice. It was time she accepted that.

(and if a small part of her whispered that she could go to him and try to reconcile, she ignored it; if he couldn't handle her as she was, then clearly he wasn't right for her)

_((an even smaller part of her breathed that for any relationship to work, compromises must be made; she refused to acknowledge it, full stop))_

Well, there was nothing for it: she would simply have to visit the Fentons sooner than expected. As it was unlikely she would encounter trouble, Phryne didn't bother summoning Dot; she simply slipped back into her shoes, pulled on her coat and hat, and, after leaving word with Mr Butler where she was going, headed to the Fenton property, located about fifteen miles away from the Hamilton estate.

During the uneventful drive, Phryne continued to mull over what she knew about Iris Hamilton and her situation. The state of her room had been extremely surprising . . . until one considered that Bryce Hamilton was, according to the servants and her own observations, a man who did not tolerate not being in complete control of anything. And, given that his sister was the elder child, his refusal to provide the money for her to change or decorate her own personal surroundings could likely be viewed in the light of putting her in her place. Or, possibly, by keeping her so thoroughly under his thumb, Hamilton believed that she would be grateful at the chance to escape him, even in the form of a marriage she didn't want. Doubtless this betrothal involved money, influence, or a debt (or all three, with her luck) and Iris would have been at least peripherally aware of this.

But with no money of her own, or means to get any, where on earth would she have gone?

Thus occupied with her thoughts, Phryne nearly drove past the gated driveway leading to the Fenton family home, and had to brake rather hard to keep from shooting by. Though she managed to avoid missing the gate, the subsequent turn was somewhat rocky and the car let her know, loudly and with great emphasis, that it did not appreciate such rough handling. As she made her way down (and down) the gravel drive – good Lord, it must have been two miles long! – she found herself curious about the man who had purportedly captured Iris Hamilton's heart (she would bet every last pound in her purse that her betrothed shared several characteristics with her brother) . . . and, perhaps more importantly, how they had met.

Her arrival at the door caused a mild stir, but she was quickly escorted into the front parlour and provided a cup of moderately-decent tea (Dot's tea was, Phryne had discovered, rather difficult to outdo) before Higgins – the butler – fetched Mr Harold Fenton. While she was waiting, Phryne decided that a quick look about wouldn't be amiss and ambled around the room, taking in the carefully-chosen (and, to her mind, overly-ostentatious) artwork, designed only to impress. There were no personal touches that she could see, not even a crocheted pillow or family blanket (which even she had, though it was kept for the sole use of Aunt Prudence). The overall picture presented came within a very small hair of being offensively gaudy and Phryne wondered, not for the first time, what it was about people who grew up with money having such horrendous taste. Lord knows her family had been the same on the titled side.

The sound of footsteps caught her attention, so she quickly went back to an enormous winged armchair covered in dark green velvet and settled herself as elegantly as possible (which wasn't very, but it was still better than what looked to be the world's most uncomfortable sofa) just as Higgins stepped through the door and bowed before moving aside and letting his employer enter.

Harold Fenton was an imposing man a few inches taller than Jack, bald, with a decent amount of muscle, grey eyes, a long jaw, and a protuberant nose. His lips were full, his greying red mustache verging on ridiculous, and his chin firm. Phryne felt a small surge of satisfaction at being right in her earlier guess; poor Iris' brother and fiancé were markedly similar. Fenton nodded to her as he cleared the door and Phryne gracefully rose, offering him her hand.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fisher," he rumbled, his voice a surprisingly pleasant bass, as he gave her hand a quick squeeze.

"And you, Mr Fenton," she returned with a nod of her own. This close to him, she was able to see the intelligence in his eyes . . . and the cunning. What she _didn't_ see was curiosity, which made hers spike.

"I'm sorry to stop in unannounced, but I've been commissioned by Bryce Hamilton to find his sister Iris and as you're her fiancé, I was hoping you might have some insight as to where she would have gone."

Wariness came to his face at this announcement, but no surprise or concern, and Phryne felt herself tense. Whatever was going on, it was _definitely_ more than a woman trying to escape an unwanted marriage. Long practice enabled her to keep her composure, however, and she maintained eye contact with ease.

Harold Fenton was studying her just as intently, but after a few moments, his wariness faded into smug satisfaction. It was subtle, and like as not, most people wouldn't have noticed it, but Phryne wasn't most people. Her instincts were giving her an insistent warning, but for the time being she ignored them; there was information she had to have, and she had come to the conclusion that acquiring said information was rapidly becoming urgent.

"I'm afraid not, Miss Fisher," he replied, making a _faux_ attempt at looking sorrowful. She had to concede that the man was good; had she not seen the complete lack of – well, anything, in his expression at the news of Iris' disappearance, Phryne would have thought his emotions genuine. Yes, this was indeed a dangerous man.

"We aren't particularly close, you see," he continued, watching her shrewdly, though without any malice that she could detect. "I've been away for several years and our personal interaction has never been . . . truthfully, it's never been anything."

"I see," Phryne murmured. "So . . . you don't have a residence elsewhere that she might have gone to?"

He shrugged, the carelessness at odds with the watchfulness in his eyes.

"Possibly to my brothers' flat on Eddington Street, but I wouldn't get too excited. I haven't lived there in some time."

She gave him a fake smile before pulling out a small notepad and pen. "If I could get that address, Mr Fenton, I'll definitely take a look, just in case. I'd hate to miss something in my search."

Phryne was surprised to see that she had caught him off-guard, though his only visible reaction was a blink and a slightly subdued, "Certainly. It's 173 Eddington Street, in Melbourne proper."

She graciously inclined her head as she tucked pen and pad back into her clutch, before flashing a winsome smile. "Thank you, Mr Fenton. I have every hope it will help me find Iris."

"I pray so," he said with complete insincerity – though his voice did have the appropriate gravitas. Phryne really had to give him credit: he was a superb actor. Feeling as though she gotten everything she could short of compromising her own safety – with no chance of additional information – she offered him her hand and tried to ignore the way his touch made her skin crawl.

Shortly thereafter she was on the road, basking in the clean air after both the stifling confines of the house and the overbearing coldness of its master. She harboured no hopes that she would find Iris at this flat, but with luck, she would divine a direction to follow.

* *  
Nearly an hour later, Phryne found herself dubiously eyeing a drab brownstone flat, 2-storey, with obvious signs of both occupation and neglect. This area of Melbourne wasn't the best and she briefly regretted not changing into something less conspicuous. Still, there was nothing for it, so Phryne took a deep breath, steeled herself, and gingerly made her way up the cracked walkway, giving the knocker several strong strikes.

It took nearly five minutes for someone to answer; luckily, Phryne didn't take offense easily. Also, it gave her the chance to observe the street environment. Unfortunately, it took only a short time for her to see that if there was information to be gotten from this area, it would take a delicate touch . . . and one that couldn't come from her. Damn.

The sound of the door opening pulled her attention back to where it should have been and she looked up – straight into a near-carbon copy of Harold Fenton, only half his size, very thin auburn hair, and pale blue eyes. Based on the stubble shadowing his jaw and his red-rimmed eyes, Phryne surmised that this was Donald. Still, best to be sure.

"Donald Fenton?" she asked gently, pulling off her gloves and tucking them in her purse. He sniffled and nodded, pulling the door open further and standing back in obvious invitation. Making sure she had one hand on her revolver, Phryne accepted and slowly entered the flat.

It was clearly a bachelor pad, if the complete disarray was any indication: clothes everywhere, dishes scattered in random (and improbable) places, and beer containers on virtually every flat surface. She delicately wrinkled her nose and declined the young man's offer of a chair.

"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr Fenton, but Bryce Hamilton has asked me to find Iris, and your brother Harold suggested she might have come here."

This earned her a blank stare for several seconds before the man blinked and gave a quick shake of his head.

"Umm . . . no, Iris hasn't – she's never been here."

It was such an obvious lie – and so poorly thought out – that Phryne actually felt sorry for him, and she gave him a gentle smile.

"It's all right, Mr Fenton," she said, catching his gaze. "I know you and Iris have a relationship and truthfully, it's nothing to me beyond helping me find her. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?"

The shocked relief in his eyes was sobering; apparently, tyrannical behaviour was something else that Harold and Bryce shared. He rubbed briefly at his eyes before shaking his head, distress coming off him in waves.

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "Not a clue. She was supposed to come here that afternoon, but she never did, and Iris – she doesn't really have friends and – well . . . "

Here he paused and looked away, swallowing hard.

"We only have each other, truthfully, Miss Fisher," he told her brokenly, staring blindly out the window. "I mean, Ron and Arnold share this place with me, but we don't have all that much in common, so . . ."

He had no need to finish that sentence and Phryne felt a pang of sympathy (though inwardly, she was wondering at the mindset that had named the Fentons: Harold, Donald, Ronald, and Arnold? That was just cruel. Her name might be mangled, mispronounced, and misconstrued, but rarely was it mistaken for another. How often had one of the boys been in trouble because their parents grabbed the wrong name?). Before she could ask a follow-up question, the door banged open and a man looking very similar to Donald stumbled in.

Well, at least the brothers had the same father, she wryly mused. That must have been a relief at some point in their lives (and, very likely, a detriment at several others). The new arrival didn't see her until he came to a halt by his brother, one hand on his shoulder.

"Don, I sa – oh. Hello," he said with surprise, blinking owlishly at her.

"How do you do?" Phryne asked politely, while mentally gritting her teeth in frustration at the interruption.

"Very well, thank you," he answered, recovering his poise. "I'm Arnold Fenton, Don's baby brother."

"Pleased to meet you. Miss Phryne Fisher," she riposted with cautious optimism. This might be more informative than she had thought, if only because this one wasn't despondent. "Iris Hamilton has disappeared and I've been asked to find her."

"Iris?" Arnold exclaimed, giving his brother a worried look. "When?"

"According to her brother, three days ago, and there's been no ransom demand, so he feels that she was . . . attempting to avoid her forthcoming marriage."

This garnered a bitter snort from Donald, though he said nothing and didn't turn away from the rather dreary view outside the front window. His brother shot him another concerned look but nodded to Phryne. "That's all our sentiments," he told her. "This marriage nonsense has been a sham from the beginning, but whatever caused the engagement in the first place must be deuced important, because neither Harry nor Hamilton will entertain the notion of ending it."

"Hmm," Phryne breathed, adding this new information into her mental deck and reshuffling the cards. The obvious answer – that her brother or fiancé had gotten rid of her in order to renegotiate whatever business deal was behind this – didn't sit right with her, though Jack would likely have disagreed.

Ignoring the pang of loss at the reminder, she started to ask if Harold could have done it (he was their brother, after all, and at this stage, their insight would likely be a little more accurate than hers), only to be interrupted yet again.

"'S odd, though," Arnold mused, looking down for a moment. "My mate Sebastian said his girl's cousin went missing a few weeks back; Emily and Sarah were supposed to meet for lunch at Ricardo's, but Sarah never showed."

"Ricardo's? The one a few blocks up the street?" Phryne asked intently, her full attention brought to bear. This could be important.

"That's the one," he confirmed with a nod. "I wonder what happened," he said as an afterthought, his attention drifting. Phryne got a good grip on her temper; she only had one more question, and then she could get the hell out of this . . . this . . . cesspit filled with irresponsible children.

"Arnold, do you happen to know Sarah's last name?" she queried, giving him a winning smile. Predictable as time, he smiled back and gave her what she wanted without a second thought.

God, she missed Jack. He had quite happily flirted with her, but her wiles had never been enough to override his principles. If he told her something, it was because he chose to do so, not because she beguiled him. It was one of the things that attracted her the most.

_**Enough**__ about Jack_, Phryne told herself savagely, He was gone and apparently doing just fine, and she had far more important things to worry about.

"So, her name is Sarah Larssene?" she double-checked with the boy, determined to make sure this was right. With two suspicious disappearances so quickly – and in the same area – there was a good chance they were connected, which would definitely help her search for Iris.

Arnold nodded. "Yes," he confirmed. "I remember because her name is spelled oddly but pronounced normally. Seb thought it was a riot that people were always calling her 'Larceny.'

Forcibly restraining from rolling her eyes, Phryne turned her attention to Donald and crossed the room to his side, gently touching his upper arm. He started and turned, flustered at her nearness.

"Would you like me to keep you informed, Donald?" she asked softly. Looking absolutely flabbergasted, he opened and closed his mouth twice before shaking his head. "I – no, Miss Fisher. Not until you find her . . . or what happened to her," he finished despondently. Phryne wrestled back her sympathy; the boy wouldn't know what to do with it and besides, it wasn't her place.

She started to step away and then had a final thought. Looking back to Iris' lover, she felt a pang; he was obviously devastated and she hated to ask her next question, but it was rather a necessity.

"Donald," she started gently, giving him a soft smile, "would you happen to have a photograph of Iris that I could borrow? It would be of immense help in my search."

He stared blankly at her for a few seconds before slowly nodding and picking up a small brown book on the desk by the window. "Of course, Miss Fisher. Let me just . . ."

He trailed off as he flipped through the pages before giving a soft exclamation of triumph and turned, holding what looked to be a fairly recent picture, judging by the crispness and clarity of the image. Visibly hesitating before handing it to her, Donald swallowed hard as misery filled his eyes. It didn't take someone of Phryne's observational skills to know what he was afraid of and she immediately moved to assuage his fear.

"I promise you'll get it back, Donald, safe and sound," she said quietly, infusing her voice with resolve. "You have my word."

He gave her a long look before abruptly shoving the photograph at her and retreating to his spot in front of the window. Arnold gave her an absent nod as he went to his brother and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Phryne glanced at the picture as she started for the door, only to pause in surprise. Bryce Hamilton was hardly the definition of 'pretty' (in any way, shape, form, or fashion), but Iris was . . . striking. Not beautiful in a conventional sense, but definitely eye-catching.

It seemed that her failure to exit the flat caught both men's attention, as they were staring at her with identical curious expressions. She bestowed a rueful smile on the pair of them and gestured to the photograph.

"My apologies, gentlemen," she said. "I was just surprised; she bears no resemblance to her brother."

Arnold laughed at that and nodded, giving Donald a gentle punch to his upper arm. "I know. Harry says that Bryce used to be quite the peacock in his teens and twenties, but that it died two weeks after his parents did."

Phyrne flicked a glance to Donald and saw him nodding in agreement. "He was an arrogant, vain popinjay," the elder of the brothers muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She filed that away in her mental index and bade them both a polite farewell before escaping the sad, claustrophobic space. Still, it had been well worth the effort, as she had discovered a good deal more than she'd expected and now had a solid starting point. Things were looking up.

_(and if she thought of Jack and how much he would have enjoyed this puzzle, well, she didn't)_

* * * *  
_tbc_


	2. The Sixth Sense

The next afternoon, Jane Ross looked up at her foster mother and wondered when, exactly, the world had gone mad. Then she promptly answered her own question. Ever since Inspector Robinson had broken up with her, Miss Phryne had been in turn despondent, angry, and (more and more) frequently almost manic – a state that brought back unpleasant memories of her childhood with her mother. Then again, Miss Phryne was mentally sound, which Anna was not.

So, seeing her with a bright gleam in her eyes over a case wasn't unusual. Being asked for not only her input but her assistance . . . that was new.

To be fair, it hadn't started out that way. Rather, Miss Phryne had asked her if she knew anything about – or anyone in the area of – Eddington Street. As it happened, Jane did: she, Ruth, and Edith had been at that block of streets for about two weeks before being forced to move by some of the long-term rabble a few years ago. Miss Fisher already knew that she couldn't be the one to get the information she was seeking, but Jane knew that neither Bert nor Cec could get it, either. They would never be mistaken for gentlemen, but neither could they pass for street riff-raff.

Which left her.

Miss Phryne's immediate response was a resounding 'no,' but it had surprisingly little force behind it. Considering that she was investigating one disappearance and potentially looking at a second, she was willing to do whatever it took.

Well. Almost.

The argument had been fierce, but Jane eventually won by the simple application of logic, which was something that Miss Phryne wasn't exactly on good terms with (actually, her relationship with logic was remarkably similar to that of her male playthings: they came together when it was convenient for both of them but parted ways as soon as they were done, and had no plans or desire to keep in touch).

Miss Phryne had objected that Jane was a child; Jane had countered with the fact that she had survived on the streets for several years, and then survived that odious hypnotist, his despicable woman, and their contemptible schemes. Physically, she was fourteen, but she was not a 'child.'

Which was true, her foster mother had conceded, but she didn't want her daughter going back to being a street rat – especially in a place where at least two women had disappeared. Jane understood this, truly, but she also knew that if Miss Phryne didn't solve this case, it would haunt her – and there was no other option, because there were no other leads. Whoever had taken Iris Hamilton was extremely thorough.

So now they were here, with Jane triumphant – though it was something of a Pyrrhic victory. She wasn't looking forward to this. But she couldn't leave that poor woman in the hands of whoever had her any more than her foster mother could.

"I'll be safe, Miss Phryne," she coaxed gently, as she stood in front of the fireplace.

"Jane —"

"I will. I haven't become completely civilized yet," Jane pointed out, inwardly grinning when a small smile flirted around Miss Phryne's lips. This was a point anyone who knew her would readily concede, even though they adored it (unless you were Aunt Prudence, who, let's be honest, might actually melt if she were to adore anything).

Miss Phryne abruptly sobered and leveled a serious look at her daughter.

"Jane, it isn't that I don't think you can do this. It isn't even the danger, in and of itself. But —" she held up a hand to keep Jane from interrupting " – whoever these people are, they are clever, they are ruthless, and there's a good chance that they're lethal. I know you're capable, Jane," she continued, her voice softening, "but if something were to happen to you, I couldn't bear it."

This . . . these were valid points, Jane privately admitted. But that still didn't solve the immediate problem: the issue of her safety while getting the information Miss Phryne needed. However, Jane had survived those years on the streets primarily because she was quick-witted, intelligent, and had a very good instinct for thinking on her feet, so a workable solution presented itself fairly quickly.

"Bert can watch over me," she said, taking a few seconds to relish the surprise on Miss Phryne's face. There weren't many people who could do that (damn the inspector, who used to do so on a near-weekly basis, to the entire household's amusement).

"What do you mean?" the other woman asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

"Just that. He can't stay with me on the street, but he would be able to blend in with some of the rougher crowd and I can find a place to sleep where he can see me. Then, if there is a problem, he'll be right there."

There was a long, astounded silence as Phryne Fisher found herself outmaneuvered for the first time in a long while (two months). After a bit, the stunned quality shifted to calculating as Jane watched her visibly work out a plan. It was absolutely fascinating.

"Very well," Miss Phryne said suddenly, startling her daughter. "You will go and Bert will accompany you, and the _second_ you have the information – or determine that it isn't there, whichever happens – then Cec and Dot will remove you under the guise of being with Welfare."

Her voice was firm, and something in her tone told Jane that this was both non-negotiable and the end of it. But, as that was an excellent idea, she had no intention of arguing.

"All right," she agreed simply, meeting Miss Phryne's gaze. "Let me go find some street clothes, then."

"Now?" Miss Phryne asked in surprise. "Won't you want supper first?"

Jane shook her head. "No," she replied. "If I try to go in at night, I'll never be trusted, even a little. I can blend in better during the day, and it's easier to explain running away while my 'guardian' (sarcasm ran rampant on that word) was out, because it's much easier to take food and money when they're gone, instead of trying not to wake someone up."

Raised eyebrows greeted this, but no further objections were made.

"Then gather what you need, and if you're missing something – anything – let me know. You'll get it. In the meantime," she continued, sweeping toward the door, "I'll go give Bert his new assignment."

Jane nodded her agreement and started for her room, but stopped when Miss Phryne suddenly caught her in a fierce hug.

"Be _careful, _Jane," she whispered into her daughter's hair. "If it comes to a choice between having you safe or finding Iris, then I want you safe. Remember that, Jane," she said urgently, pulling back to look intently into Jane's eyes. "I will _never_ choose anyone or anything over your well-being. Are you really sure you want to do this?"

Jane swallowed and nodded. "Yes," she replied. "If anyone can find Miss Hamilton, it's you, but you need help and I can get what you need. It shouldn't take more than a couple of days and I _do_ know how to look after myself."

Her foster mother nodded and released her, stepping back without hesitation and gesturing to the stairs. "Then go get ready. I'll take care of this side," she said with a bittersweet smile.

Jane nodded back and went upstairs to return to her past. As she studied the dress she'd been wearing when the inspector had found her on that train, a wave of revulsion washed over her. She would do this, and she would get what Miss Phryne needed, but she really, really wasn't looking forward to it. Still, it had to be done and there was no other option.

By the time she went back downstairs an hour later, the fight was over. No one was happy but they had apparently been brought around to the logic of the situation. Bert was greased up surprisingly well and would easily pass as a bruiser, and he winked at her when no one else was looking. Jane gave him a quick grin back before turning to Dot and hugging her tightly.

"Be careful, Jane," her sister in all but name begged, holding her just as firmly. "I – just be careful."

Jane closed her eyes and squeezed Dot a little tighter, taking this chance to relish having a family, people who loved her and cared what happened to her. "I will," she promised. "Safe and sound and with what we need to find that poor woman."

Dot pulled away and worried at her lower lip, a habit that drove her constable 'round the bend. But she didn't say anything else, for which Jane was grateful. This was hard enough. Instead, she went to Cec and Mr Butler and hugged them both, accepting their whispered pleas to remain safe, and gave her foster mother one final embrace before walking with Bert into the late afternoon sunshine.

* * *

Bert let her out of the taxi on Slocomb Street, two over from Eddington and part of that particular circuit. She immediately began cataloging which groups were gangs, which were coalitions, and which ones just had several individuals clustered for whatever reason. This block was moderately quiet with regards to the street presence, for which Jane was thankful. A large presence invariably meant strict hierarchies, 'initiation' rituals, and no information about anything until you had passed, survived, and done an initiation on someone else. Also, food was strictly rationed and the newer you were, the less you got.

Strange though it was, street children tended to be very proud of their skills and they really didn't want more orphaned, homeless beggars threatening their position.

So Jane was able to navigate freely down Slocomb and across Broadstone to emerge on Eddington. Looking about with interest, she was heartened to realize that this shouldn't be all that difficult: the area itself was surprisingly clean, given that there was an established homeless presence, but she saw no evidence of gangs . . . which meant that she simply needed to find someone who could point her in the direction of someone else, who would know what corner to lurk at.

Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, Jane started her search for both a source of information and a place to bed down within Bert's eyesight (he'd been following her with unexpected stealth). As expected, she located the latter first and set about making sure it would be recognized as 'in use.' That done, she decided to forage for supper; it had been several hours since lunch. This took considerably more effort, but she finally lucked out at a place called Crown and Castle. As she was storing the evening's discarded meals in pockets specifically made for the purpose, a boy around her age skulked around the corner. Eager anticipation shone out of his eyes, but that changed to angry resentment (and dark disappointment) when he saw her.

Sensing her chance for the first link in the information chain she needed to build, Jane gave him a cautious smile and stepped back, leaving a generous amount of food in the bin. Suspicion quickly replaced the disappointed anger, but hunger won out . . . and she was a girl, after all. No match at all for him, in his mind.

He quickly filled his pockets before turning back in preparation for melting into the shadows, and Jane pounced. She glued herself to his side by application of a stumble, a curse, and a fist shaken in the direction of a motorcar heading the opposite way. Before he could try to shake her off, Jane stepped away herself and made a point of checking that her pilfered food was still on her person. She did it without thought, even now, and interest competed with the suspicion on his face.

"You all right?" he asked in a raspy voice, eyeing her with wary concern.

"Yeah, 'm fine," she muttered, flicking a glare after the departing motorcar for good measure and growling. "Bloody toffs, thinking they're the only sodding thing on the road."

"Yeah, I hear ya," the boy commiserated, taking a step closer. "They'd as soon run you over as look atcha and then have a go because you dented the damn tires."

Jealousy and resentment rang in his tone, and Jane had to fight down a triumphant smile. The bait had been taken. She nodded in vigorous agreement and said, "Well, thanks f'the hand. M'name's Mary. What's yours?"

"Simon," he replied before giving a sudden, wary glance around and grabbing her hand. "Come on," he grunted. "Night's comin' and it ain't safe on this street, 'specially for girls."

Jane missed a step due to sheer surprise but recovered quickly. It took effort for her to rein in her interest but she managed, so only hurt pride was in her voice when she asked, "What do ya mean ''specially for girls?' You think I can't look out for meself?"

Simon gave her a once-over but wisely said nothing in answer, instead telling her, "Look, all I knows is that on this street, a lot of snob-class women what been disappearing – blokes too, I've heard. I been here almost a year and ain't seen you, so I's guessing you're new. It ain't safe to be out on this street at night and for sure not alone."

Jane was actually astounded. The odds of finding what she needed within the first few hours hadn't even occurred to her and here it was, dropped in her lap. She resisted the urge to hug the boy and instead schooled her features to gratitude (which wasn't a stretch).

"I'll remember," she promised. "Is there someplace you go at morning?"

He spat and nodded. "I help with a veggie cart just on Broadstone," he said, straightening with pride.

"All right, then," she grinned. "Maybe I'll see you there. Thanks for the tip."

And with that, she sauntered off, well-pleased with herself. If she was careful, Simon would be a Godsend. Making her way back to her corner, she caught a glimpse of Bert lounging just inside the door of the bar across the street. He visibly relaxed when he saw her and she gave him a reassuring smile before settling down on her coat (serving as both cushion and blanket) and carefully removing her bounty. The thought of eating scraps was revolting, but she was hungry enough that she'd be all right so long as she didn't think about what she putting in her mouth.

After she'd consumed about half the food, Jane carefully wrapped the remainder in her tattered scarf and hid it behind a brick she'd found. That done, she was hit with a huge yawn. It was amazing what you could forget, she mused as she lay down and rolled herself up in her coat. Surviving on the streets took guts and determination, but it also took strength and energy, and it appeared that she had used hers up for the day. To her surprise, she dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

* * *

Something else she'd forgotten about street living, Jane thought with loathing, was how disgusting the absence of things like baths and toothbrushes truly was. Still, there was nothing for it and if she were lucky, it would only be for another day or so. She ate half of the remaining food, fighting down nausea at the congealed grease and acidic taste of it, before foraging for water. It took nearly an hour, but in the end, she was successful. As she wandered up Eddington with the ultimate goal of Broadstone and Simon's vegetable cart, Jane studied the activity surrounding the area he had warned her about. She was disappointed to see nothing of interest, though she did take careful note of the people who lingered at that corner.

By the time she'd made it to the intersection of Eddington and Broadstone, the sun had been up for about three hours and the initial rush to work was long past. She came around the corner of a liquor store and paused to get her bearings, giving equal attention to Broadstone. Now that she'd had some time to acclimate to the rhythm of Eddington, Jane found herself struck by the marked difference in atmosphere between the two streets. Broadstone felt impersonal, to be sure, but there were also no bad undercurrents she could detect, nothing that seemed 'off' to her. In contrast, Eddington had a taint of wrongness about it, something sinister, though it was subtle. Jane's well-honed instincts were chiming a clear warning and she fully planned to heed them.

(That was the main reason Jane had been so insistent about doing this: her years on the streets had taught her how to find and interpret the various eddies and undercurrents of established areas. After all, it wasn't as if Eddington Street was covered by a giant black cloud or shrouded in darkness. No, what Jane – what _any _child who survived the streets – had learned was how to see the evil that might lurk beneath the everyday hustle and bustle of the environment. The lesson had been hard-earned.)

Seeing no sign of Simon or a vegetable cart, Jane began to make her way up Broadstone, noting the easy come-and-go among the shops. There was nothing that made her yearn to go inside, though, to her faint disappointment; she'd always liked going into new shops with Miss Phryne, and the less reputable the better. On the other hand, the lack of distraction was definitely good for her health.

Unlike the walk, which was starting to become tiring. Civilized living had clearly gotten her out of shape, much to her disgruntlement. As she topped the rise of the hill she was slogging up, panting, Jane caught sight of Simon as he slid between a grocers shop and a feed store. Curious, she followed, but stopped short of actually going into the alley; that would a sure way to lose the ground she had gained the night before.

Instead, she busied herself by investigating his vegetables, putting Mr Butler's patient tutelage to work. Perhaps five minutes later, Simon called, "Oi! What're you on about?" in an aggressive tone of voice, only to blink in surprise when she turned around.

"You weren't here, so I thought I'd take a look," she answered, giving him a friendly smile without actually being friendly. He blinked and Jane inwardly cursed. "Was that all right?" she asked a touch fearfully (which suited both her cause and her persona).

He blinked again before nodding. "'Course it is," he rumbled. "Just didn't expect to see you here. 's late."

"Yeah, I know," Jane drawled. "I didn't feel like fighting the workers crowd, so I budged in and waited 'em out."

Reluctant approval gleamed in his eyes for a moment before he abruptly asked, "Was the night good?"

Jane again felt the urge to hug the young man; it was the perfect opening.

"Mine was well enough," she began, paying close attention to his expression, "but that section you warned me about never quieted down. It was bleedin' annoying, it was."

Faint alarm flickered across his face as he leaned in a little closer to her.

"Look, Mary, I know you're new here and don't have no reason to trust me," he said in a low voice. "But take my word: Eddington's not safe for anyone; someone vanishes about every couple weeks and no one's noticed."

Before Jane could say anything, a short, skinny man came out of the grocers and snapped, "Simon! Get a box of potatoes ready and take them to Mr Hart."

"Comin'!," Simon called back before giving her an apologetic look.

"s all right," Jane said, backing up. "See you tonight, at Crown and Castle?"

That was a risk, but she figured it was worth it. Something told her that the information Miss Phryne needed was here, so she would observe that corner on Eddington today and tonight, and tomorrow morning if she could manage it. Hopefully, she would get what she was after before another abduction happened.

Seven excruciatingly boring hours later, Jane was ready to either scream or kill the next obnoxiously-entitled person she saw (and by 'or' she meant 'and'). She'd finished the last of her food stash two hours before and was starting to get hungry enough to contemplate digging through bins when her patience was unexpectedly rewarded. A man she'd seen both that morning and briefly around one o'clock was back, watching the clock and pacing agitatedly. He was unremarkable physically: big, but not huge, and he was plain-featured apart from a red mustache, so there really wasn't anything to set him apart. She wouldn't have noticed him at all but for the same hint of 'sinister' that she'd sensed in Eddington Street itself; that, and the shrewd calculation in his eyes.

This being the third time she'd seen him in twenty-four hours, Jane also noticed that he'd met what she suspected was the same person every time (the woman had arrived while she was thinking). Why she thought it was the same person, Jane couldn't say, because her clothes were different at each meeting, but that same aura of 'wrong' hung about her (also, whatever they were doing couldn't be all that legal if the woman had to change clothes that many times in one day). She watched them have a hushed, intense conversation for several minutes, inwardly fretting that she couldn't hear anything. Abruptly, the man stepped in threateningly close to her and growled something before he turned on his heel and strode angrily to a waiting car. The woman waited until he'd gotten inside, then made a rude gesture and headed the opposite direction.

Jane let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and sagged against the rough brick wall behind her. She was almost positive these were the people Miss Phryne was seeking, but if she saw either of them tonight, she'd get close enough to listen. That way, she'd know for sure.

On the heels of that thought, Simon came around the corner and stopped, obviously surprised to see her hiding next to a flower shop. Off his startled look, Jane thought fast and put fear in her voice as she whispered, "I thought I saw my foster mother and I ain't _going_ back there."

His expression cleared and he nodded in understanding, casually leaning against the wall a few feet in front of her and taking a long look. "I don't see any women out; reckon she's gone?" he asked. His chivalry brought unexpected tears to Jane's eyes; Simon was a good boy, but unless he met his own Miss Fisher, he'd never get to be a good man. And that wasn't fair. Unfortunately, she could do nothing about it but hate it, even after she went home.

"Mary?"

His concerned question brought her attention back and she nodded shakily, giving him a weak smile.

"I think so," she replied. "She's usually home from the shops around now."

He watched her for a moment longer before shrugging. "Alrigh'."

There was a slightly uncomfortable silence before Simon, looking adorably awkward, haltingly said, "It's too early to raid the bins, but would you like to, maybe, umm, walk with me?"

Jane's first response was to say 'no,' because nothing could come of it. On the other hand, he was cute, and nice, and had developed strong protection instincts. And it would be nice to have company for a bit, especially given how she'd spent her day. So she nodded with another smile, this one genuinely pleased, and took the arm he offered her. He was holding it all wrong, and didn't really know how to walk with her, and it wasn't even the right arm – and Jane wanted to cry. She was absolutely telling Miss Phryne about Simon; he deserved a better life than this.

They spent a surprisingly pleasant hour or so wandering about Broadstone and Slocomb; Simon showed her some of his favourite views and places, and Jane taught him a few tricks about getting shopkeepers to take pity on you. By the time it was dark, they'd forged a good rapport and Jane almost hated for it to end. But they were both starving and tired, and Jane needed to be back at her post. It didn't take much effort to draw Simon back to the Crown and Castle and they quite gleefully raided the bins, getting a few treats along with the standard fare before retreating back to neutral territory a few shops past her sleeping place.

It was obvious that Simon wanted to stay and eat with her, but Jane simply couldn't do it, so she smiled gently and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you for the walk," she told him with complete sincerity. "But I'm getting tired and you have to run the cart tomorrow, don't you?"

He nodded with some reluctance and left her, absently touching the cheek she'd kissed. Jane watched him go with a sigh.

Oh, yes. She was _definitely_ talking to Miss Phryne about Simon.

After she'd hastily downed about half the pilfered food, Jane hid the rest and hurriedly made her way back to her vantage point, settling in with a mental groan. If nothing else, she hoped the man (or woman) showed up to alleviate her boredom. God apparently felt sorry for her because the man appeared at the corner just before midnight. She breathed a soft 'thank you' before pushing away from the wall and making her way soundlessly to the alley next to the building her mystery man was waiting at; no sooner had she settled in to wait than a car door opened and heavy footsteps made their way over.

"What's the word?" a rough, gravelly male voice asked impatiently.

"Nothing," a surprisingly smooth bass rumbled back. "Town's been emptying out because of the season, so there isn't a lot to choose from."

"Dammit, Fenton, that's unacceptable," the first voice snapped. "We missed one in Newcastle last week and we can't chance them again so soon."

An exasperated sigh preceded the second man's irritable, "Well, what the hell do you want me to do, Nelson? It isn't like moderately-wealthy, unloved relatives are on every street corner, you know. Why don't you go thin Adelaide out?"

Jane heard the sound of clothes rustling, a dull thud, and a grunt. "If Adelaide were a viable option, Fenton, I wouldn't bloody be here! But we have a shipment going out in three days and Adelaide's a full day's travel one-way. We ship out from Inverness, not here."

"Then you're out of luck," Fenton shot back. "Why don't you grab a street rat or twelve?"

"Buyers won't take them or I would. Save me the hassle of dealing with you **and** that bitch," Nelson snarled. "Fine. I'll see what else I can do."

Jane saw him start for his car, only to turn suddenly and hiss, "It's not wise to provoke me, Fenton, especially when you've made me unhappy."

Before the other man could respond, Nelson got in his car; Fenton cursed long and viciously as it sped off. Jane held completely still as he walked past her, heading for his own vehicle. It wasn't until she was sure she was alone that Jane felt reaction set in. Horror, fear, shock, outrage . . . it was overwhelming. The only thing that kept her on her feet was sheer willpower: Miss Phryne had to have this information, so she could not be caught. It was that simple.

It took several minutes before she felt steady enough to move, and once she did, Jane went straight to where Bert was unobtrusively standing guard. He was waiting for her, so all she had to do was whisper 'tomorrow morning' as she walked past. He couldn't quite hide his relief and Jane suddenly wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and let him tell her that life was good and everything was fine. But she couldn't, so with deliberate determination she went to her place and curled up in her coat, trembling.

She didn't close her eyes until the sun came up.

* * *

Once the joy of Jane's return had ebbed and she had both bathed (at her desperate request) and eaten (at Bert's insistence), Phryne and Jane withdrew to her study. It was clear that Jane had found something, but despite Phryne's impatience to get on with solving her case, she said nothing. It was clear that Jane had more on her mind than the missing Iris Hamilton, so she schooled herself to patience. It wouldn't take long.

"There's a boy on Broadstreet," Jane suddenly burst out. "His name is Simon and he helped me and he liked me and – it's not fair, Miss Phryne," she finished abruptly. "He asked if I'd walk with him and when I said 'yes,' he gave me his arm. What street boy does that?" she asked plaintively, with tears in her eyes. Taken aback, Phryne could only blink as she processed this.

After a few minutes, she finally recovered enough to answer, though it wouldn't be what Jane wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry, Jane, but I don't know that I can do anything. I can't bring him here and I don't know any gentlemen – or even any ladies, come to think of it – who would be willing to take in a street child."

(As it happened, she ran into Camellia Lin a few weeks later at Madame Fleury's; several weeks after that, she received a picture in the post of a smiling Lin and Camellia, and a not-completely-sullen looking young man with brown hair and light blue eyes.)

Jane's face crumpled and Phryne immediately pulled her into a hug, letting her cry. There was obviously more to it than this boy, but she wasn't going to push. Jane was resilient, but this had to have been an ordeal, and she began to regret allowing her to do it.

Apparently, Jane had acquired mind-reading skills while she was gone, because she drew back a little and looked up at her foster mother.

"I asked," she reminded Phryne. "And it wasn't that bad, really."

This earned her a disbelieving eyebrow. "Then why are you crying?" Phryne asked softly, brushing back a strand of hair.

"Because of what I found out."

Jane pulled completely away from her and took several steps back, looking more serious than Phryne had ever seen her. "It was awful, and I hate that you have to know, and I will tell you but I'd really like to sleep in my own bed first, because I'm exhausted and I'm afraid it won't make any sense and I don't think I can tell you more than once."

Rendered speechless by her daughter actually _babbling,_ Phryne simply stared in astonishment for several long minutes before Jane's worried expression registered.

"Of course," she exclaimed gently, moving to take Jane's hand. "Take as long as you need," she added as she wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders and headed for the stairs. Jane nestled into her and sighed, walking in perfect step. Phryne dropped a kiss on the top of her head and smiled as they entered Jane's bedroom. She was slowly pacing, gazing at nothing in particular, when Jane came back from changing into her nightclothes and looked startled to find her still there.

"Umm . . . " she said eloquently, looking adorably confused, to which Phryne gave a tender smile.

"I thought I might tuck you in," she told her daughter, laughing at the pout that appeared on the girl's face. "Just this once, Jane. I missed you and I'm so glad you're safe and I just want to – to savour having you home. Please?"

It was Jane's turn to laugh and she hugged Phryne before sliding under the covers and sighing with happiness as she got comfortable. Nothing further was said and Phryne stayed with her daughter throughout the night, stroking her hair and counting every breath.

* * *

Once Jane had awoken the next morning, she insisted on telling Phryne what she knew, eschewing all offers of food, bath, or a change of clothes first. That was enough to alarm Phryne, who was well-aware of her daughter's love for long soaks in a bubble bath, so she agreed and they went back to her study.

After watching Jane try and fail six times to tell her what she'd found out, Phryne's concern elevated to outright fear. Jane wasn't easy to scare (as evinced by her complete unconcern at the thought of searching the corpse of a mummy; Jack had told her later that the girl had been cool as a cucumber, unlike him), so whatever she had discovered was bad. When her fingers tightened around a pen in sheer frustration, Phryne had an epiphany and pushed a small notebook across the desk to her. Startled brown eyes met hers and she offered an understanding smile.

"Sometimes it's easier to write it down," she told her daughter with the wisdom of experience. Jane's gaze lit with comprehension and she put pen to paper, filling two pages in short order. She stopped to reread her getting-better-but-still-sloppy writing and Phryne made a heroic effort to not read them upside down (a trick that had driven Jack absolutely _insane_). But she was beyond impatient to get this information, as her instincts were loudly informing her that something truly nefarious was going on, and so it was possible that she leaned so far forward in anticipation, she almost slid out of the chair.

Jane flicked her an amused look and said, "I'm almost done, I promise . . . unless you don't want descriptions of the men I saw?"

Her eyes were wide with artless innocence and more than a little mischief, and so Phryne conceded, affecting a bored air and making a languid gesture with one hand while secretly relieved that she had driven the demons from her daughter's eyes. A few minutes later she was done and Phryne was holding an extremely detailed pair of descriptions and a near-verbatim record of the conversation.

Phryne smiled her approval and clasped Jane's hands, squeezing them tightly as she said, "Thank you for this, Jane. I know you didn't want to — " she nodded at the girl's surprised look, "— but you went and got exactly what I need . . . and most importantly, you came home safe and sound, and that's more than I could have asked for."

Jane tightened her own grip and met her eyes with a slightly-wobbly smile. "Honestly, Miss Phryne, it wasn't that bad. I got frightened when I realized what they were talking about, but I was never in danger."

Phryne wasn't entirely sure she believed her daughter, but she wasn't going to push, either. If it became a problem later, that would be a different matter, but for now, she chose to believe the young woman's self-assessment. "All right," she said with an answering smile. "Now – is there anything else I need to know?"

Jane shook her head. "No. I wrote down everything I saw, which, apart from that last meeting, isn't much. I saw him three times and her twice before the two men met that night."

"All right," Phryne said softly. "Then go eat and get ready; Dot's chomping at the bit to take you out somewhere and have a girls' afternoon. I left some money in your purple coat, so have a good time."

Barely able to suppress her excitement, Jane eagerly nodded and flew from the room, making for the kitchen with an alacrity that drew a delighted giggle from Phryne. Ah, to be so young and resilient.

Her good mood faded as she read over Jane's account of the get-togethers she had seen, and anger flared sharply when she saw Fenton's name and the mention of a red mustache. Damn. He was in on it. Well, at least it partially explained how these women (and men, too, if Jane's account was accurate) were being chosen. She'd bet her Hispano-Suiza that at least one upper-class servant was involved, too, seeing as they were invisible by design as well as being part of a network of societal secrets and habits that their lords and ladies had no access to.

She perused the data more slowly the second time, taking in the city names mentioned and coming to a reluctant admiration of the intelligence that was behind this, for she had figured out what she was truly chasing.

A slave ring.

Feeling a sudden chill, Phryne abruptly got up and went to the window, sinking down on the chaise and leaning against the glass in an attempt to soak in a little of the sun's heat. A slave ring. Taking them down would most definitely be a tall order and one she wasn't completely sure she could manage alone. She pounded a fist against the window frame in a sudden fit of frustrated anger, damning Jack. Would he even believe her if she went to him? Or would he look past her and dismiss her information as 'just another flight of fancy?'

That was a risk Phryne couldn't take, so after updating her case file with Jane's information and her own conclusions, she gathered the whole thing up and dropped it off in her room before heading downstairs. She briefly wondered why their 'shipments' were going out from Inverness, given that all the cities she knew about were port locations – which in turn led her to wonder if people were also vanishing from Syndey or Brisbane, the other two major port cities in southern Australia.

However, it was only a passing thought. From the man's own lips, via Jane, Phryne knew he'd be back to Inverness in three days' time, and very probably sooner. As such, it stood that Inverness was her next stop, but there were places to go, things to do, and people to call before she and Dot undertook their journey.

Speaking of Dot, she and Jane were already gone, so Phryne charged Mr Butler with renting a suite for herself and her companion, then sent Bert and Cec out to see if they could find any more information about this Nelson, though she wasn't holding her breath. After she'd consumed a small breakfast of tea and scones, she went to the phone to call an old friend from her days under Georgina Charlesworth's tutelage, one Melissa Blackburn. She had made something of a name for herself in the accounting field and Ms Charlesworth had mentioned in passing that she'd settled in Inverness a few years prior. Had Phryne been in possession of a second Hispano-Suiza, she would have bet it on this operation having extensive books, which meant that somewhere, there was a bookkeeper. Hopefully Melissa could help.

Once she'd finished the call (in a considerably better humour; she'd forgotten how much fun her friend could be and made a mental note to introduce her to Mac sometime) with a promise to meet once she arrived in town, Phryne headed back upstairs to pre-pack (among the many miracles Dot could work was the ability to pack a week's worth of clothing into one case without crushing the clothes beyond repair), removing from her closets an overabundance of black, the requisite underclothing, shoes, jewelry, and – simply because Inverness was home to some truly spectacular entertainments – a new emerald green gown, stunning if she did say so herself, with a halter-top that covered her shoulders but left her arms and back bare, and a layered skirt that fell halfway down her calves.

Then, with exhaustion finally making itself known – and as she had nothing else to do but wait for her household to return from their various activities – she stripped to her camisole and slid into bed. A nap sounded heavenly, especially as she hadn't slept the night before. She squirmed about for a few minutes before getting comfortable and between one breath and the next, she drifted off.

* * * *  
_tbc_


	3. Have Gun, Will Travel

On returning to the house, Dot was advised of Miss Fisher's plans and sighed. She'd truly hoped this would be a straightforward case, but it seemed to be a futile wish. Mr Butler gave her a sympathetic look and handed her the page with the hotel information. Jane had already gone upstairs, so Dot went to her room and changed to more casual clothing before slipping into her mistress' room to begin the packing process. She was surprised to see that Miss Fisher had already chosen the clothes she wanted to take, but wasted no time in gathering the whole of it up and taking it into the antechamber to sort and fold. Once that was accomplished, she went back to get Miss Fisher's travel cases and her preferred toiletries, and then starting packing.

Miss Fisher woke when she was about half-done and nodded approvingly to her, but said nothing as she entered the bathroom. Several minutes later, with Dot finishing up the first case, she emerged looking refreshed, with her hair neatly combed, her makeup flawless, and her travel outfit of a long-sleeved, lightweight, silver-shot blue shirt over dove-grey slacks looking neat and crisp.

"Oh, thank you, Dot," she said as she made her way to the bedroom door. "You are truly a miracle."

Dot smiled at the compliment and held up the emerald dress. "Do you want this bagged separately, Miss?" she asked, torn between her usual envy and admiration of her mistress' style.

"Hmm . . . yes, please, Dot. If we do end up going out for fun, I want it to look smashing."

Dot nodded and carefully laid it on the bed, but was halted before she could get a garment bag.

"We're heading out as soon as we're both packed, Dot, and meeting a friend for supper in Inverness," Miss Fisher said with a serious expression. "If I'm right, we don't dare delay."

Dot heard a very well-hidden fear in her voice and swallowed; it took a lot to frighten Miss Fisher. She nodded and said, "Of course, Miss. It shouldn't take me more than an hour to get us both ready."

Her mistress nodded approvingly and pulled open the door. "Cec and Bert should be back by then, and hopefully they'll have some more information for us." With that, she headed downstairs and left Dot to her packing.

As it happened, Cec and Bert hadn't found anything about the mysterious Nelson (which, Dot noticed, did not surprise Miss Fisher). While her mistress was saying goodbye to Jane, Dot took the opportunity to make sure the two men were ready to follow them to Inverness; if Miss Fisher was afraid, then Dot wanted help available. They agreed with a gravity quite unlike their usual selves and she made a second copy of the hotel information for them; Mr Butler, with his usual physic premonition (when it came to Miss Fisher, at any rate) had arranged a three-room suite, so they had housing should this investigation take longer than a day.

Shortly thereafter, they were on the road (and, Dot noticed with a sinking stomach, back to Miss Fisher's usual driving style). She tried a few times to engage her mistress in conversation, but quickly gave it up as a lost cause; Miss Fisher answered, but her attention was clearly elsewhere and her companion recognized the signs of a plan coming together.

A little over an hour later, Miss Fisher came to what Jack Robinson would have described as a screeching halt in front of the Seacastle Hotel. Dot was only prevented from falling to her knees and kissing the ground in thanks by the arrival of the hotel's valet, who had opened the door and offered Miss Fisher his arm. A minute later, he had returned for her, and then the two women walked in to the lavishly-appointed lobby where they were greeted by a concierge who could have been used in a dictionary as the very definition of 'impeccable formality.'

Miss Fisher being Miss Fisher, however, would not stand for that. Dot bit back a smile as her mistress worked her usual magic and by the time they were getting their keys, the concierge ("call me Martin, Miss") was relaxed, smiling, and appeared pleased with himself and the world at large. Their luggage had been brought up, so Dot set about unpacking their clothes to air, taking a moment to be thankful that nothing needed to be pressed. while Miss Fisher called her friend and arranged to meet her at a restaurant called The Dragon's Blade (which piqued Dot's curiosity, as that sounded nothing like the establishments her mistress preferred) in twenty minutes.

"Dark clothes, Dot," she announced after she hung up, fixing her companion with a serious look. "If Melissa has what we need, which I'm expecting, then we shall proceed straight to the office in question."

Confused, Dot repeated, "Office?" while giving her employer a beseeching look, which netted her a longer explanation.

"If what I suspect is true," she began, choosing a pair of solid black trousers with minimal flare around the ankles, "then the man we're chasing will have a full set of books and an accountant to run them."

"I see, Miss," Dot said cautiously. "And we're . . . searching tonight?"

"Indeed we are," came the distracted reply, her mistress' attention distracted by selecting a short-sleeved black shirt, topped off with a brilliant crimson wrap accented with gold fringe. As she turned in the direction of the bathroom, she noticed Dot's lack of movement (she was still processing what she'd heard) and gently admonished, "Quickly, Dot. If what I suspect is true, we don't want to linger."

"Yes, Miss," Dot said hastily, going to her own room so she could get ready (and slip Cec the key for his and Bert's room). It seemed Miss Fisher was returning to her old self. Dot would have been considerably happier about it had the joy of discovery still been in her eyes.

After dinner (which was both extremely informative and highly entertaining – Dot shared Miss Fisher's desire to introduce Ms Blackburn to Dr MacMillan, though the world might never recover from the impact), Dot found herself an active participant in the minor felony of breaking and entering. It was a testament to her life now that she didn't register even a token objection.

With a soft _snick_, the door came open and the two of them slipped inside the office of Mr Rodney Desmond. Miss Fisher carefully eased the door closed, but didn't actually shut it, in case they needed to get out in a hurry. A small torch was pressed into Dot's hands and she was gestured toward the massive set of filing cabinets against the wall opposite the window, while Miss Fisher began looking through Mr Desmond's desk.

Just as she reached the cabinet, Dot heard Miss Fisher softly call, "Wait, Dot. You need the key," and then a small silver object flew through the air to her. As Dot was not the athletic type, she missed catching it, but it bounced off her shoulder and she managed to get her hand under it. Blowing out a deep breath, she turned back to the locked door and carefully opened it, playing the light over the tightly-packed files and folders. The sheer amount of paperwork was mind-boggling; mildly panicked, Dot wondered how on earth she was supposed to find anything at all, never mind something specific.

Still, it had to be done, so with another sigh, she crouched down and started searching from the bottom up. It was slow going and she was only about half-way through the second shelf when Miss Fisher suddenly crowed with triumph, startling her into dropping her torch.

"I'm sorry," she gasped quietly, scrambling to pick it up. A second later, the sound registered and she turned to her mistress, hope blossoming in her chest. "Did you find it, Miss?" she asked eagerly.

"I believe so, Dot," came the distracted reply. Dot hurried to the desk and started laying out the books Miss Fisher was pulling from what looked like a secret compartment in the largest drawer. They ended up with a total of fourteen books and a few minutes later, she was taking pictures of various pages while Miss Fisher slowly flipped through them.

Reprehensible though she found it, Dot was forced to agree when her mistress mused, "You know, it's completely and utterly heinous, but I must confess to admiration at the sheer intelligence behind this. It's perfectly laid out to keep them from losing track of their abductees; there's a book for each month with the information entered in back to front, so if someone like us were to just grab a few pages from the front and run, we'd get nothing."

Dot, who was still taking pictures, nodded at the observation; taking pages from the front of a book had helped them on several occasions (the Gaskin factory case sprang immediately to mind). Finished with the November book (labeled 2811), Miss Fisher exchanged it for the one marked 28PO and Dot got ready for the next picture . . . only to freeze when her mistress gave a vicious curse and spun away from the desk, glaring at the moon and fairly vibrating with anger. Alarmed, Dot put the camera down and went to her, a hesitant, "Miss?" falling from her lips.

Miss Fisher didn't answer for a long moment, and Dot knew her well enough to back away and let her think. She went back to the desk, flipped the book to the last page, and, after adjusting the angle of her torch, started snapping pictures. This book looked to be a record of payments to the families of the abductees; it also appeared to be a new one, because there were only about fifteen or so pages filled in – and it was on the most recent one that Dot understood her mistress' anger. In bold black ink was a listing for a payment of £750, with Bryce Hamilton's name printed on the 'Paid To' line and Iris Hamilton listed under 'Sold.'

Dot's stomach heaved as she suddenly realized what she was looking at and she turned a horrified look on Miss Fisher.

"Slaves?" she choked out, gripping the camera hard enough to hurt. Miss Fisher swung around to face her, fury blazing in her eyes.

"Yes," she hissed. "I'd hoped I was wrong, but . . . "

A long, fraught moment passed before Dot broke it by closing the payout book and grabbing the last one, this denoted by 0028. Again, starting from the back, Dot found herself getting images of what looked to be a complete listing of all the people involved in the ring – including a woman Dot recognized in astonishment as Bryce Hamilton's new maid.

"Miss!" she said urgently, looking up. "I know this woman; according to the head maid, Bryce Hamilton hired her about three months ago."

"Did he?" Miss Fisher asked, a dangerous light gleaming in her eyes. "Well, isn't that interesting? And I bet that if we were to check her employment history, we would find that Miss Maria spends two to three months with different society families, with a relative going missing during that time."

That made hideous sense and Dot's hands shook as she took one final picture before putting the camera down and backing away from the desk. She was truly afraid that she might be sick and wanted nothing more than to escape from this nightmare. It seemed Miss Fisher felt the same, because she carefully put the camera in her clutch before shoving the books back into their hiding place with rough, angry movements. Dot rallied enough to close and relock the filing cabinets, handing her the key and retreating to the door.

Less than a minute later, they were climbing into the car. Not a word was spoken on the drive, but Dot did find herself casting worried glances at her mistress. She'd seen Miss Fisher in every mood imaginable, but the absolute fury she was radiating was new, and Dot was truly afraid of what she would do. A sudden sharp turn to the left jolted her out of her thoughts and she looked up expectantly . . . only to frown at the sight of a warehouse district.

"Miss?" she asked quietly, confused. "Aren't we —"

"No," her mistress snapped, expertly maneuvering the car down a narrow street. "I want to see this warehouse; I need to know if it's active at night."

Dot had no answer for this, so she said nothing, merely turned her attention to the buildings they were passing. She spotted the building number as Miss Fisher made another pass and pointed it out, clamping a hand to her hat as the incredibly sharp turn threatened to blow it away. She promptly found herself rocking forward at an abrupt stop, but said nothing; she was too busy staring, wide-eyed, at the beehive of activity taking place in front of them.

After several minutes, Miss Fisher cleared her throat and, with a commendable effort at nonchalance, said, "Well. This might make things easier. Don't you think so, Dot?"

Caught off-guard, Dot stuttered an affirmative response. It seemed to be a signal, because Miss Fisher started the car and, once again in total silence, headed back to the hotel.

* * *

Dot had no warning about what would happen next, but she should have known. Miss Fisher was many things; patient didn't even make the list, and even less so given the situation. So when she awoke a little after nine the next morning only to find the camera, the case file, and a note instructing her to call the police if she hadn't heard from her by 5:00pm in place of her mistress, she wasn't surprised. Terrified and frustrated, yes . . . but not surprised. Dot reread the note and felt an unaccustomed urge to throw something as her anger rose up. Miss Fisher was in danger and she was alone, and there wasn't a thing Dot could do about it except worry. And pray. Which wasn't very helpful at all. She couldn't even send Bert and Cec after her, because they were gone.

By the time 10:00am rolled around, Dot was almost physically ill and was strongly reconsidering calling the police. The door slamming open make her shriek in fright and spin around, clutching her chest as she backed up. Cec strode into the room, Bert on his heels, and made a beeline for her.

"We lost her," Bert said without preamble, glaring at nothing in particular. "It's a bleeding maze over there and she slipped away from us."

"We tried backtracking, but we couldn't even twig to where she'd gone," Cec added bitterly, looking ashamed.

That settled it. Miss Fisher could yell at her all she wanted for doing this, but Dot would happily listen to it so long as it meant her mistress was alive and well to do the yelling. She stepped past the two men and headed straight for the telephone. Taking a deep breath, Dot called the operator to request a number she hadn't asked for in seven weeks, and when the woman picked up, she closed her eyes.

"City South Police Station, in Melbourne, please. Constable Hugh Collins."

* * *

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was surviving this day the same as he had done virtually every day for the past seven weeks: by shutting himself in his office, ignoring everything that didn't directly require his attention, and trying to remember what enjoying life felt like. He had actually found himself waxing poetic several days earlier (mentally, of course; he never spoke anymore unless it was necessary, which rather alarmed his officers, given that he hadn't exactly been loquacious even before he'd started (falling in love) working with her) with the reflection that colours had become so much less vibrant recently, he might as well be living in a grey world.

He had so thoroughly horrified himself with that mental observation that he had immediately proceeded to get two steps past roaring drunk.

The next morning had gleefully taught him that colours did, in fact, still exist, in the form of acid greens, revolting pinks, blinding whites, and nauseating yellows. He'd spent the day curled up in bed, alternating between praying for death, doing his level best to throw up every internal organ he had in his body, and trying to remember what on earth had possessed him to think that simply walking away from Phryne would make him stop loving her. Oh, and fighting a decidedly one-sided battle (with the added humiliation of being soundly beaten) against the worst headache he'd had since the signing of the divorce papers. As a result, he hadn't so much as touched a container of alcohol since.

Or permitted himself to think her name.

So it understandably stunned him when Hugh Collins threw open his office door and gasped, "Dot just called, Sir! She says Miss Fisher is in trouble and needs help!"

He would later admit that it was petty, but Jack's first reaction was resentment: was he never to have any peace from her? Worse, was he forever damned to always feel his pulse quicken at the thought of her in danger?

Something of his thoughts must have shown, because Collins stopped hemorrhaging words in favour of trying to simultaneously apologize and leave his office, only to be stopped with a single irritated look and impatient hand gesture. Sighing, his constable capitulated.

"Dot says that Miss Fisher stumbled across a slave ring while investigating a woman believed to have done a runner to avoid an arranged marriage."

Jack felt the blood drain from his face and actually had to brace himself against his desk while his mind tried to accept what he'd just heard. Phryne was chasing a slave ring. Dear God, no. Anything but that. Every one of his senses sharpened to a painful clarity and he saw in vivid detail the strain bracketing Collins' mouth, the fear blazing in his eyes, and the resolve stiffening his shoulders as he made his report.

Collins nodded at his horrified expression and continued. "According to her, they're operating out of Inverness, so Miss Fisher decided to go up there. Dot says she left a note asking her to call us if she wasn't back by five o'clock this evening —"

"It's just gone ten," Jack interrupted him after a quick glance at his watch, rising from his chair.

"I know," the young man replied. "Dot says something is wrong."

"For God's sake, Collins, what?" Jack demanded agitatedly, raking a hand through his hair.

His constable shook his head. "I don't think she knows, Sir, because she didn't say. But she thinks Miss Fisher is in trouble and since Dot's not one to panic . . ."

His response was never in question.

"All right. Go get Senior Sergeants Hawkins, Mason, and Page, and tell them each to bring their best junior or constable with them. Then requisition three more cars, weapons for all of us, and as many shackles as Walton will let you have. In fact —" he paused for a moment to scribble a quick note to that effect, "— here. Don't use it unless you have to, but if he gives you any trouble, you have my written authorization. I want everyone in my office in twenty minutes. Oh, and I want everyone in plain clothes, including you. We'll need our badges, but we don't want to give the game away."

Collins blinked at him, surprise painting his features, but said nothing. He merely nodded his obedience and vanished. Alone, Jack dropped his head and took several deep breaths, trying to beat back the fear that was threatening to paralyze him. From a distance, he registered that his hands were gripping the edge of his desk so hard that he was starting to feel it give, and the bones were standing out in stark relief. It took him a few minutes to regain enough control to let go of the wood, but the loss of support sent him stumbling back into the wall.

His mind kept circling the same facts: Phryne. Slave ring. Danger. Death. It was an eerie echo of that damn motorcar accident that he thought (feared) had killed her. And in a searing blaze of understanding, Jack Robinson realized that he was an idiot, because it didn't matter what she did or who she was. All he cared about was the fact that he was hers. He loved her, he would trade his life for hers in a heartbeat, he would give her anything she would have of him . . .

He would kill anyone who harmed her and tell God they died.

With the new natural order of his life restored, Jack felt an icy calm descend over him. Had anyone been in the room with him, they would have sworn the temperature had dropped. Having regained control, he picked up the receiver on his desk, called the operator, and requested the main police department in Inverness. In just a few minutes, his call was ringing through and with a stillness he had honed during the war (which both his fellow soldiers and policemen would have recognized and been exceedingly wary of), Jack moved not a muscle. He wasn't sure he breathed. Physically, at least.

Mentally, though . . .

With a speed that would have surprised no one who knew him, he was building a plan out of his available options and it did not matter in the slightest that he and his men would be on a foreign turf, nor did he have consideration for credit on the arrests. God help him, he didn't even care about taking down the ring. His goal was finding Phryne; he didn't think 'rescue' because it _was_ Phryne, and, assuming she'd been captured (which he would not have put so much as a pound on), the officers would likely arrive to find the building in flames, the perpetrators trussed up like turkeys somewhere close, and Phryne herself leaning insouciantly against her car, wearing something totally inappropriate for catching criminals (while still managing to capture the attention of every male in a five-mile vicinity) and smiling the wicked smile that made Jack want to kiss her so badly that he ached, sometimes.

Please, God, let that be the case.

The phone being picked up brought Jack's full attention back to the moment and he involuntarily straightened, prepared for a fight that he was not going to lose.

"Inverness Central Police, Inspector Sheridan speaking."

It was a confident voice that answered him, settling one of his fears (which didn't really _help_, but was still appreciated), and it enabled him to answer civilly.

"Good morning, Inspector. This is Jack Robinson, head DI of City South in Melbourne."

There was a brief pause and Jack could almost see The Raised Eyebrow of Surprise (as Jane had dubbed it after seeing the phenomenon on Sergeant Wynters) before the other man answered him.

"Well, this is unexpected," he said after a moment, obviously curious. "What can I do for you?"

"You can prepare for a team of eight, including myself, to arrive at your station in about an hour," Jack said honestly, with politeness in his voice but no give. A longer pause ensued (as did, no doubt, two raised eyebrows).

"And why am I doing that?" Sheridan finally inquired, his voice holding a touch of – not hostility, but . . . antagonism? Yes, that was it. Jack understood, but right then, his tolerance level had a negative balance. Sheridan didn't know what hit him.

"You're doing 'that,' Inspector, because there is strong evidence to support the existence of a slave ring operating out of your city and it was gathered by one of my people," Jack informed him with icy contempt. "You're doing 'that' because she's in danger trying to shut them down and I'll be _damned_ if I don't do everything in my power and yours to help her. Is _**that**_ enough to be getting on with, Sheridan?"

(Collins would tell him later that hearing that speech had been like standing next to a lightning strike: the hair on the back of your neck stood up, the atmosphere crackled with pure, undiluted danger, and you moved at your peril. Jack just shrugged. He was protective of the people he loved.)

Apparently, Sheridan got it, because not only did he not protest further, he simply asked, "What do you need from me?"

The relief that flooded Jack at his answer didn't touch his voice. "I need the biggest room you've got, as many shackles as you can requisition, and as many armed men as you can spare – including yourself, if possible – in plainclothes. We'll bring the information with us and have a single briefing with everyone."

The other man let out a long breath and said, with a touch of incredulity, "You don't ask for much, do you, Inspector?"

Jack said nothing and Sheridan gave a soft laugh. "Understood. We'll be ready when you get here."

The sudden release of tension made Jack drop into his chair, but he put every ounce of sincerity he possessed in his voice when he thanked his fellow inspector. It wasn't until after the call had been ended that he allowed reaction to set in. Burying his face in his hands, he took two deep breaths and whispered her name like a benediction before locking everything back down. The fallout was going to be spectacular (and not in a good way), but he couldn't be emotional about this. Not and stay sane.

A hesitant knock on his door brought his attention back to the present and he looked up as a casually-dressed Collins stepped inside his office. "Everything's ready, Sir," he announced, gesturing behind him. "Inspector Hawkins wants to know if we're briefing here."

"No," Jack answered, shaking his head. "There's no reason to do two and since the Inverness lads are assisting us, we'll just have one collective briefing when we get there. Call Miss Williams and have her meet us at Inverness Central Police Station in an hour. I'll meet you at the car."

"Yes, Sir," Hugh said as Jack stepped past him. He paused for a second at the sight of three senior sergeants waiting by the door, a man loaded for bear standing behind each one. Pride in his men filled him when he realized that even the plainclothes order had been managed – not everyone brought a change of clothes to the office, after all.

"Morning, gentlemen," he greeted the group. "Thank you for being so prompt. We're headed to Inverness, who are going to assist us with this matter, so the briefing will be there. For the trip up, I don't care who rides with whom, but I want all four cars with us. I also don't care who's in the lead, so don't wait on me because I'm waiting on Collins. If we get separated we'll meet at Inverness Central. Any questions?"

Various negative answers made him nod and he gestured at the door. "Off you go, then. Remember: go straight to Inverness Central. Do not stop unless the car explodes; I won't accept any other reason for delay. Is that understood?"

He met each man's eyes to convey just how serious he was and was gratified to see their understanding reflecting back at him. "Good lads," he said approvingly. "Go."

They went and he blew out a quick breath before returning to his office, grabbing coat, hat, and his backup weapon; Collins had his official police-issued gun.

And then, with nothing to occupy him for the moment, the situation crashed over him again and Jack Robinson did something he hadn't even contemplated since the day after he'd gone to war: he bowed his head and prayed that God would keep Phryne safe, no matter the cost.

Because now that he had accepted the fact that he would love her until he drew his last breath, Jack would not allow a world to exist that didn't have Phryne Fisher alive and well in it. It simply would not happen.

And God help anyone who thought otherwise.

* * *

In an uncharacteristic fit of nervousness, Phryne made another adjustment to her hair (in her defense, her head felt rather naked without a hat or hairpiece on it), then took a deep breath and strolled into the stereotypical warehouse (big, dirty, dimly-lit, poor acoustics) that she was certain held her quarry. As she walked down the main hallway, she made the rather interesting observation that almost every door had a rusted-over lock. Once again, she was forced to admire Nelson's intelligence – anyone coming down this hall would see nothing suspicious, because there was nothing to be seen. One had to be actively looking for something . . . which would make it nigh-on impossible to play it off as 'just wandering; don't mind me' should she be caught.

Well, there was nothing else for it, so Phryne took a deep breath and a final glance to confirm that no one had seen her, and slipped down the small connecting corridor to the first adjacent hallway. Oddly, the lighting here was a bit better and it took a minute for her eyes to adjust. Once she could see without blinking, she made a perusal of the doors she could see without moving. To her lack of surprise, most of these rooms appeared to be in regular use . . . but only one had a fairly new second lock,

A jolt of excitement shot up her spine; that had to be the room where Iris and the other current abductees were being held. Another quick look around told her no one was there to see her, so she started down the hall, only to stop two steps in and take off her heels; between the acoustics of the building and the quality of the shoe, an extremely obvious echo was inevitable, and that would not be advantageous with regards to a stealthy rescue. A second look showed her no hiding places and her clutch wasn't near big enough, so she left them tucked as close to the wall of the connecting corridor as she could and silently padded down the hall.

She had successfully picked the first lock and was just starting to get a rhythm on the second when an explosion of echoing footsteps and a torrent of curses assaulted her ears. Shocked, she spun in the direction of the sound and saw four men charging up the hallway . . . from a connector that joined the second and third hallways at the outside wall, but not the first and second. She took immediate advantage of the fact that her hands were currently out of sight to jam her lock pick in the inside band of her trousers. That done, she briefly considered trying to shoot one or two of them, but reason prevailed. That would still leave two and they probably wouldn't take the deaths of their colleagues all that well. Resigned and irritated (and refusing to acknowledge the fear lurking at the back of her mind), Phryne carefully tossed her black clutch on the floor behind her and did her best to unobtrusively nudge it against the wall in an effort to make it less noticeable. As the men came near her, she slowly raised her hands to indicate that she was no threat and promptly found her left wrist caught in a bruising grip by Wayne Nelson himself.

He gave her an exceptionally repulsive smile and raked her body with a leer that made her immediately desire a hot bath (or possibly an ocean) to remove the feeling of his hands on her. And even though she managed to hide it, Phryne was suddenly very afraid and cursing her overconfidence. Telling Dot to call the police at five seemed particularly optimistic.

This assessment was only verified as she was roughly manhandled up the hall, through another connector, and then back down a bit before being shoved into an unoccupied room – a storage closet? – with an unfeeling cruelty that frightened her more than being struck would have. At least hitting her with no provocation (she wasn't a complete idiot, thank you) would have been a deliberate act, which required a moment of thought. That careless 'eh, if she falls and breaks her neck, oh well' was terrifying. It also drastically reduced the odds of her getting out of this alive . . . never mind unscathed.

On the heels of that thought, she was given a second, harder shove and was unable to break her fall, so she landed face first on a filthy, very pungent mattress (mattress?), thrown on her back, and had her arms manacled with a gleeful spite that set off every alarm she possessed. But they did nothing else, merely gave her another filthy once-over before leaving her alone and locking the door behind them.

Once she was sure no one was coming back, at least for a while, she managed to contort herself enough to work the pin out of her trousers and start working on her shackles. Her right hand being dominant, she immediately attempted to open the left cuff, but the awkward position she was lying in made the angle impossible. So, by dint of some extremely creating maneuvering (and even more creative cursing), she finally got her right wrist uncuffed. With a deep sigh of relief, she tugged that arm out from under her body and let it rest on the cold concrete next to the mattress (and she absolutely wasn't thinking about that, because she was positive that the floor was the cleaner prospect), only to wince at the stabbing pain of pins and needles.

She quickly lost track of time, but the lack of any sort of action (on anyone's part) finally got to be too much and with an acrobatic twist that would have made Sasha de Lisse envious, Phryne managed to get a look at her watch, only to blink. Good God. She hadn't been here two hours yet. The sound of footsteps coming to her door made her start in fear and she hastily hid the pin again, this time in the mattress next to her free hand. That done, she flopped back down in a prone position, but after a few minutes, they continued past her door. She was just blowing out a relived breath when a change in light told her that she now had a guard, which severely decreased her odds of escaping the room. The sounds of a heated conversation breaking out from somewhere near her head made her jump in surprise before bringing a scowl to her lips. Wonderful. Not only were the acoustics awful, but the walls were thin. Wasn't that just lovely?

Her sarcasm helped keep the fear at bay, but it was all for naught when she realized that the argument was about her . . . and whether or not they could have their fun with her before shipping her out with the rest of them. Phryne forced back nausea at being discussed like she was a commodity and started considering her options. Her feet were unbound, and one hand was free, but the room was so damned small that it negated those advantages. Then again, she'd taken down more than one man with less – and she did have a concealable, sharp weapon available, though it would only be good for one use.

She was so busy considering what else she could use or improvise that she didn't hear the argument end. Her first clue that she was out of time came when her door was shoved open and Wayne Nelson strolled in. He gave her the same look he had earlier, mentally undressing her, and Phryne wasn't able to repress a shudder of disgust. But if he thought she was cowed, he had another think coming, and she gave him a look of pure disdainful contempt before turning her head slightly away from him and closing her eyes.

It was a calculated risk, and quite possibly insane, but in Phryne's experience, men who could do what Nelson did would not respond well to being dismissed or ignored – and more often than not, their anger led to them making mistakes. She realized her error when an amused chuckle was his only response and internally frowned in confusion before abruptly understanding.

Nelson was too intelligent and too disciplined to fall for that kind of schoolyard taunt. He definitely didn't like it, but he wasn't going to fly off the handle. Still, having begun the play, she had to continue the part. Phryne heaved a bored sigh and glanced back at him, arching one eyebrow in a bland inquiry. His smirk only grew as he took another step into the room, with two of her original captors following him in. She almost thought they were there to move her . . . until the last man pushed the door shut with an unnaturally-loud _clang._

As understanding washed over her, Phryne hoped that Jack wouldn't blame himself for this. And then she clenched her jaw, palmed her hidden weapon, and prepared to survive.

* * *

Wesley Sheridan didn't know what he was expecting when Detective Inspector Jack Robinson walked into his station, but a man just shy of six feet tall with the lean body of a swimmer certainly wasn't it – especially considering that he'd taken over Sheridan's police station _from bloody Melbourne._ The fact that Robinson entered with an escort (literally; his men were arrayed around him like an honour guard) sparked resentment and a mental sneer.

Both of which died a quick, fiery death when he met the man's eyes.

A chill worked its way up Sheridan's spine, because he'd briefly been a prisoner of the Germans back in '16 and his captors had shown more warmth than Jack Robinson did. Taking a deep breath, Sheridan accepted the fact that the Melbourne inspector had one goal in mind and would do whatever it took (legal or not, he suspected) to achieve it. He could detect no ego from his fellow DI, but there was also no give. Robinson would be running this operation and he gave not one damn if anyone said, thought, or wanted otherwise. Sheridan was almost afraid to find out just who they were going to help – or rescue – because the complete lack of anything save icy resolve emanating from Robinson was another indicator of just how dangerous he was; very few men could achieve that stillness, and fewer still could sustain it.

In the time it took these realizations to sink in, Robinson had crossed the room to him and was holding out a hand. Sheridan shook it and was unsurprised at the firm, unyielding grip.

"Inspector Robinson," he said respectfully with a nod. "DI Wesley Sheridan."

Robinson nodded back. "Pleased to meet you, Inspector. Are we ready?"

Another man might have been insulted at the complete back of pleasantries, lead-up, or even small talk. Luckily for the Melbourne contingent, Sheridan understood that something deeply personal was driving this and, having had a few of those instances himself, saw no reason to be difficult just for the sake of posturing. That being said, he would not tolerate anyone disrespecting him in his own station, on his home turf (to be fair, he doubted Robinson would, but given how deeply he was affected by this . . . whatever it was, it wasn't out of the question that he might forget himself), no matter the reason.

Still, he was damned if he would allow a slave ring to continue operating out of his city, and since the only thing he'd heard about it was a few vague rumours, he was quite willing to assist in this endeavor.

"Indeed we are, Inspector," he said with an affirming gesture to his senior constable. "If you'll head this way," he continued as he started to the conference room, "we'll get started. There's coffee if you're thirsty," he added as an afterthought, his attention caught by the girl who was standing just inside the main station door, clutching a thick folder and what looked like a portable camera, and looking intently at every officer she saw, frowning. It was obvious she was searching for someone in particular, and equally obvious that she was having no luck.

Which made sense, Sheridan conceded. Rather than the usual black constable uniforms or the higher-ranked suit-and-tie ensembles, it was instead a sea of everyday wear. Before he could take more than a few steps toward her, though, a tall young man with light brown hair broke free of the crowd and called, "Dot!"

The girl looked up, relief flooding her features, and made her way to him. Sheridan felt his eyebrows rise, because he was almost certain that had they not been in the middle of group of police officers, they would have embraced. As it was, she caught his hands with something akin to desperation and he actually moved to shield her from the bulk of the crowd. Now, that was interesting. Before he could ponder it further, Robinson called, "Collins!" and the young man looked toward the conference room.

"Coming, Sir," he called back and took the woman's hand, escorting her with easy familiarity through the mass of officers taking part in this operation. As they arrived at the door, which was just past Sheridan (and thus, giving him a good vantage point), he saw Robinson step forward to meet them, only to hesitate. To Sheridan's astonishment, he looked unsure and swallowed heavily before indicating the folder she still held and quietly asking, "Is that . . . ?"

The girl gave him a contemptuous look and handed the camera and file (file?) to Collins, pointedly turning her back to Robinson. The man in question looked like he'd been slapped and Sheridan frowned. Whatever was going on seemed to be a lot more serious – and encompassing – than he'd realized. This did not bode well. He was definitely going to get the full story, because taking down a slave ring wasn't something to be undertaken lightly on a good day. _Any_ distraction could get someone hurt or killed, and he'd be damned if that was happening on his watch.

Robinson accepted the folder from his constable's hand and, after nodding respectfully to the girl, he stepped into the conference room and made straight for the table, perusing the information before he even sat down.

The sound of a throat being cleared brought Sheridan's attention back to Robinson's officer and he was surprised to see that the young man was watching him intently. He bent down and murmured something in the girl's ear before gesturing one of his Melbourne mates over and asking him to take her inside. Once she was out of earshot, he turned back to Sheridan and held out a hand.

"Hugh Collins, Sir," he introduced himself. "I'm Inspector Robinson's constable."

"Pleased to meet you," Sheridan replied, taking note of the same confident grip in Collins that Robinson had. "DI Wesley Sheridan."

"Sir," Collins said, stepping closer. "I know we don't have time now, but after the briefing, is there somewhere we can talk privately? Inspector Robinson won't – there are things you'll need to know that he won't mention in there."

Despite this being exactly what Sheridan wanted, he still pinned the boy with a censorious glare. "And do you often give away your DI's secrets, Constable?" he asked with frigid contempt.

"No, Sir!" the other man almost yelped, looking horrified. "Never! But this situation is . . . it's bad, Sir, and the inspector isn't — "

"'The inspector isn't' . . . what?" Sheridan prompted when nothing further was forthcoming. Collins swallowed and looked away for a moment before taking a deep breath and meeting his eyes again.

"I don't think he knows just how compromised he might be, Sir," he stated firmly. Respect surged in Sheridan at the answer, because it told him several things: Jack Robinson apparently didn't hire (or keep) incompetent people; they were clearly loyal to him, but not to the point of stupidity; and it seemed they were encouraged to think and act for themselves. Sheridan had no illusions that he would get the full story, or even most of it, but that was fine. All he needed was the relevant data (although, given the volatile undercurrents, it was likely that he would chafe at not getting the 'unnecessary' information) so he could keep his men and Robinson's safe.

"Fair enough, Constable," he agreed. "And yes. Once we're done inside, you and I will meet."

Collins was visibly relieved. "Thank you, Sir," he said with sincere gratitude before hesitating, clearly unsure as to what he should do next. Sheridan solved his problem by grasping his shoulder and gently propelling him toward the conference room.

"Get in there, man," he said with a quick grin. "Your DI will need you."

Collins nodded and stepped inside, immediately going to Robinson's side. They had a quick, quiet exchange, and then he made his way to the young woman seated at the opposite end of the table from Robinson. She looked up at his approach and gave him a sweet smile, plainly happy to see him despite her obvious worry. With an answering smile, he settled down beside her and leaned in, brushing a quick kiss across her cheek as he took her hand.

Ah. So they were sweethearts. Sheridan smiled at the sight. Young love was always good to see – and frequently entertaining to watch.

The last of the men who had been chosen for this task filed into the room and Sheridan took one last moment to clear his head of everything but the coming operation, catching his sergeant's eye and nodding at the inquiring look he was sent.

Oh, yes. This would _definitely_ be interesting.

* * * *  
_tbc_


	4. The Iceman Cometh

As Inspector Robinson went to the front of the room and whistled sharply for everyone's attention, Hugh internally frowned. He didn't like the pitiless resolve he saw in his DI's expression, or the way he was moving with brittle control rather than his customary fluid grace. He looked like one wrong move would shatter him. This was somewhat – no, it was very alarming to Hugh, particularly as it was obvious to him – though probably not to the others, even his fellow Melbourne officers – that the inspector was here for the sole purpose of finding Miss Fisher; the fact that he would be helping take down a slave ring was purely incidental. Which was a complete and total turnabout from the man that Hugh idolized.

He knew that his DI hadn't taken the separation from Miss Fisher well at all, though he kept it under tight control. But it hadn't taken Miss Fisher's keen observational skills to notice that she had abruptly stopped coming to the station . . . or appearing at crime scenes. Equally obvious had been Inspector Robinson's withdrawal. Hugh wasn't the only one who'd seen it, either, and he'd had quite a job keeping the gossip in hand.

From Dot, he'd learned that Inspector Robinson had ended his partnership with Miss Fisher after the murder of that racecar driver; the common supposition from her household was that the break had occurred because he was in love with her but didn't think she felt the same, and had severed ties to protect himself. Given that the inspector had been miserable ever since, Hugh was quite willing to accept this as truth. Especially since, to his knowledge, Miss Fisher's name hadn't passed Inspector Robinson's lips once in nearly two months (or anyone else's in the station. Not after Constable Childress made the mistake of asking where she was when they'd found a body dressed as a scarecrow and hanging from a fire escape.).

Clearly, the news that she was in serious danger from one of the most heinous kind of person imaginable had shaken the DI to his core (Dot would later say rather tartly that she hoped the jolt back to his senses had been exceptionally painful). Hugh suspected that he didn't actually realize just how afraid he was, having buried it beneath a wall of steely resolve and merciless determination.

For everyone's sake, Miss Fisher needed to be alive and well when they found her; Hugh was truly frightened of what his inspector would do otherwise.

While he was ruminating, the room grew quiet and everyone looked expectantly to Inspector Robinson. In return, he swept the contingent of officers with an assessing gaze, making sure to meet each person's eye. Once he was satisfied that he had their full attention, he cleared his throat and said, "Thank you for being here, gentlemen. I'm Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and I know this is a shock, being invaded by Melbourne, but we need your help."

He stopped there and took another slow look around the room, this time with the intent of quelling any objections to his leading this operation instead of Sheridan. When none came, he continued, picking up the file Miss Fisher had prepared and Dot had delivered.

"As you may know, we have strong evidence that a slave ring is being operated out of Inverness under the leadership of one Wayne Nelson."

Several of the officers straightened at that and he nodded at the outrage that began to radiate from them. "Exactly," he said grimly. "He's taken two women and one man in the past four weeks, with God knows how many more before we stumbled across this. According to the information we have, he picks his targets from larger port cities – Melbourne, Adelaide, Inverloch – and from families that are decently well-off but not prominent in society or exceedingly wealthy. Also, from what we've gathered, he chooses people who aren't particularly . . . " he hesitated, clearly looking for the best way to put this, ". . . close to their relatives. And whose families won't question or report a payoff after the abduction. So, clearly, Nelson is thorough, meticulous, and has access to societal information."

He looked a bit ill, but the room understood why with his next sentence.

"Because it's a slave ring, he's obviously picking what might be termed 'pretty ones.' Again, he's showing remarkable forethought: when a beautiful person from society goes missing, people notice. Others, apparently not so much."

A general murmur of agreement broke out at this and the inspector allowed it only briefly before calling their attention back to him.

"Here's what we know so far," he started, handing the file to Sheridan, who immediately took it to the wall and started hanging up photographs, reports, and handwritten notes (Hugh had to take a moment to appreciate Miss Fisher's work; she was thorough).

"The drop-off point is Swinton Street: that's where the abductees are moved from the kidnap vehicle to a transport. The operation's accounts are being run through a local accountant named Rodney Desmond, and the holding point has been determined to be a warehouse in the South Docks, listed under the name of PRTY Transport."

An angry buzz washed over the room at that; it took no special cleverness to ascertain what the abbreviation meant.

"Save it for the raid, gentlemen," Inspector Robinson snapped, silencing everyone. He pinned each of them with a hard look, making sure they understood just how serious he was. "I know you're angry and that's fine, but if you spend it here, you won't have the endurance to take these bastards down."

Chastened (and, in Melbourne's case, shocked), the room went dead quiet. Hugh's DI took a deep breath and then said, "For the actual raid itself, Inspector Sheridan will detail the plan. If you have any questions, hold them until the end, please; we don't want to lose track of anything."

He nodded to DI Sheridan and went back to his seat, pulling out a pen and his notebook in preparation for taking notes. The other officers followed and Sheridan waited until everyone was waiting, pens poised over paper, before detailing who, when, where, why, and how this raid was happening. And even though Hugh was Inspector Robinson's man down to his bones, he had to admit a great deal of respect for Inspector Sheridan; by including the 'why' in his plan, no one thought to get bitter (or start a rivalry) at being paired with a superior officer instead of being allowed to go off on their own or with a mate, as was somewhat traditional.

Two men would to go the accountant's office and get the operation's books. Everyone else would raid the warehouse. They would go in pairs, an Inspector and his chosen officer, and make a methodical search of each room, hall, and wherever else they could look, with one team in ear- and eyeshot of another at all times. That way, if there was trouble, an immediate response was possible. It was an excellent plan and Hugh noticed that several of the Melbourne men were nodding in approval; he wondered how many of them realized that this had been Inspector Robinson's idea from the beginning. Then he saw Page give their DI an assessing look and knew that at least one (well, two, actually, because he would share that tidbit with Sergeant Wilkins) had noticed. Good. Inspector Robinson might not care about getting credit for this collar, but the rest of them did.

And though the inspector might not have realized it, a good portion of City South was fond of Miss Fisher. She definitely had a preference for Inspector Robinson, but she was always respectful of his men – unless she was given a reason otherwise, Senior Sergeant Grossmith being a prime example of that. She also had a habit of bringing them snacks that were never less than delicious, and she always had time to joke or flirt (lightly) with the men. So, while there were a few City Southers who didn't care for her or her methods, the majority of the station quite adored her. Jack Robinson wasn't the only thing these slavers had to fear.

After DI Sheridan finished detailing the raid and Inspector Robinson had rejoined him at the head of the table, they both turned hard, sober gazes on the room.

"Is there anything you need clarified, questioned, or objected to?" Inspector Robinson asked with an implacable expression. "If so, now's the time. Once this operation starts, it doesn't end until we have every last one of those bastards in custody or a coroner's van."

Silence reigned.

Inspector Sheridan swept the room with his own penetrating gaze and told them with that same unnerving calm, "Speak now or forever hold your peace, gentlemen. For the duration, Inspector Robinson is your DI and he's the one you'll answer to, so if you have any qualms or issues, you need to say so. He has my full support in this endeavor."

When silence continued to reign, both men nodded in satisfaction.

"Good," Inspector Robinson said. "You have ten minutes to grab your weapons, hit the gents, do whatever you need to do. After that, you'd better be at your assigned vehicle." No one moved. "Go," he said with mild exasperation, gesturing at the door. The officers scattered like it was the opening play of a football game. "Oh, Wainwright," he added as the first few men reached the door. The Inverness DI turned back, both eyebrows raised in question. "You and your sergeant will be the bookkeepers. Here's the address and the information we have pertaining to their location," he continued, passing the slender blond inspector a hand-written sheet of paper. Wainwright gave it a quick once-over and nodded to Inspector Robinson. "Will do, Sir," he said easily before slipping out of the room.

Hugh blew out a deep breath, only to wince. Dot had been squeezing his hand so tightly the blood flow had been cut off and her abrupt release was sending pins and needles shooting up his arm. He gave her a reassuring smile before leaning close and murmuring, "I have to talk to Inspector Sheridan before we leave, Dot, and I won't have time to see you after."

Her lips trembled before she pressed them together and gave a determined nod. "I understand," she told him before searching his eyes for a long moment. Hugh had no clue what she was looking for, but before he could ask, Dot closed the last few inches between them and brushed a kiss over his lips. He drew in a sharp breath but she was gone before he could reach for her and his empty hand fell back to the table with a dull thump.

"It'll be all right, Collins," Inspector Robinson said behind him, making Hugh yelp in shock and nearly toppling him from the chair.

"Sir?" he asked (rather plaintively, but then he'd just lost a year off his life), twisting to look the inspector in the eye.

"It'll be all right," the other man repeated, laying a hand on Hugh's shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We'll go in, we'll get them, and you'll go home without a scratch. And Miss Williams will be fine," he finished a touch drolly. "Just make sure you _don't_ get a scratch. Got it?"

Hugh nodded quickly. "Got it, Sir."

"Good. Go get ready. And, Collins?" he called as Hugh neared the door. When he turned back in inquiry, his DI continued in a surprisingly intent tone of voice, "_**I **_meant it. Not a scratch."

Hugh found himself stunned to silence; to his recollection, Inspector Robinson had never evinced real concern for him (the time he'd been made to shoot himself came to mind), and definitely not like this. Not that he was careless with his men's safety; far from it. He simply wasn't the demonstrative sort. It was . . . it was rather nice. Also, shocking enough that Hugh said nothing; he merely nodded and made his escape. And as he met Inspector Sheridan in a private office, he tried to assure himself that he wasn't betraying his DI by sharing this secret.

Failing that, he could only hope that God would allow the inspector to forgive him.

* * *

Sheridan caught the tail-end of Robinson's last exchange with Collins and arched an eyebrow in surprise; he wouldn't have pegged the DI as one to form that kind of attachment. It did increase his respect for the man's constable, given the lengths he was prepared to go to in order to protect his inspector. Despite his now-burning curiosity, Sheridan resolved again not ask for more than he needed to know and called the young man into his office with a quick jerk of his head. Showing a complete and utter failure at the art of subterfuge, Collins attempted to be stealthy as he made his way to the indicated room. Sheridan could only shake his head and smile; he remembered those days with nothing resembling fondness. They were a necessary evil (and, based on his experience as a DI, a free form of entertainment for the higher ranked, presumably as repayment for having to put up with said rookies in the first place).

As Collins inadvertently advertised his destination to the world at large, Sheridan kept a careful eye on the conference room. Just after the boy entered the office, Robinson came out and, with a quick glance around, headed for the gents. Sheridan huffed out a soft laugh; God did look out for fools and children – and baby constables who had more loyalty than sense, apparently.

All levity faded as he shut the door behind the young man; they only had a few minutes.

"All right, Constable," he began, fixing the boy with a serious gaze. "Go."

Collins blinked, stuttered, and made a vague gesture at the door (what he was trying to convey, Sheridan couldn't fathom) before gathering himself and nodding.

"Yes, Sir," he said quietly, swallowing. "The short version is that Inspector Robinson is – he has very strong feelings for the woman who came across this ring."

"And?" he prompted after several seconds of silence.

"And . . . and he thought she had died in an accident a few months ago and cut all ties with her, but —"

"But then he found out that she's in _real_ danger and realized that he might be an idiot?" Sheridan finished. When Collins' jaw dropped in amazement, he grunted. "It took no great leap of logic, Constable," he pointed out dryly. "He's hardly the first man to do something stupid after falling in love. And this might be workable."

"I – workable, Sir?" the young man asked in utter confusion. Sheridan repressed a sigh and elaborated. "So long as she's alive when we get there, he'll be fine. I presume you know her?"

A quick, jerky nod answered him.

"So is she _likely_ to be alive?" Sheridan demanded with a touch of exasperation.

A completely involuntary smile came to Collins' lips and he nodded again, emphatically this time. "Definitely, Sir. Miss Fisher is very talented."

Sheridan cocked his head at that. "Miss Fisher?" he repeated. "She's not a police officer?"

"No, Sir," Collins replied. "She's the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, a private detective."

Sheridan frowned. Phryne Fisher . . .

That was a hell of a name to saddle someone with.

His train of thought was interrupted by a photograph being held out to him and he blinked, plucking it from Collins' grasp before taking a long look.

Two women smiled back at him: one of them was the young woman who'd brought the file on the slave ring. The other was an extremely vibrant-looking woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with short black hair, sparkling eyes, striking cheekbones, and a vivacity that all but leapt off the picture.

Privately, Sheridan conceded that Robinson was a lucky man.

"Thank you," he said as he handed the photograph back. "I'll spread the word among my men – and don't worry," he added off the younger man's worried look. "I know how to be discreet."

Robinson's constable gusted out a relieved breath and slumped a little. Sheridan let him have a few seconds before clapping his shoulder and indicating the door. "We need to go," he said gently.

"Yes, Sir," came the quiet murmur, followed by an even softer, "Sir . . ."

There was a sudden hesitance in his manner and Sheridan frowned. "What is it?" he wanted to know, leaning back against the wall in an effort to put the other man at ease.

"If – if it's not Inspector Robinson if – _when_ – we find her, will you send for me?"

Sheridan forgot himself for a moment and gaped at this surprising man. He honestly hadn't seen that coming. After nearly a minute of silence, Collins' nervousness got the better of him and he started to stammer an apology, only to have Sheridan cut him off.

"No, Collins, it's fine," he told the boy. "I was just surprised. It's an excellent idea. Good thinking," he added approvingly. Collins blushed at the compliment but recovered quickly and started for the door. He still looked worried, which Sheridan wasn't happy about; they all needed to clear-headed for this. He had one last thing he could try.

"Collins?" he called before the man could leave.

"Sir?"

"Thank you for doing this. We'll get it sorted," he promised.

This time, his only response was a nod before the young man stepped out into the hall. Sheridan followed him and they met Robinson as he came around the corner. His eyes narrowed at the sight of his constable with the Inverness DI, but he said nothing, merely nodded to both of them and fell into step as they headed for the car lot. Just outside the door, Robinson stopped with a muttered curse. Sheridan's eyebrows went up, but he didn't have the chance to ask. Two men dressed in decent if rough clothing stalked up to Robinson with barely-restrained aggressiveness, stopping just shy of actually standing on top of him, and glowered.

"What do you want?" Robinson asked tiredly, rubbing a hand across his eyes. The shorter of the pair bristled but his companion knocked him with an elbow and said, "We want to help."

Sheridan watched with interest as his counterpart visibly held back his first answer, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and expelled it on a sigh of immense irritation.

"I don't have time to argue with you, so fine," he snapped, glaring at them. "You'll follow us to the warehouse and act as lookouts, one on each main entrance. If someone's coming, let us know. You WILL NOT try to apprehend them yourselves, or I'll have Inspector Sheridan arrest you now and save me the headache."

The taller man took a firm grip on his mate and looked from Sheridan to Robinson. "We can do that," he said quickly. Robinson nodded curtly and shouldered past them without another word. Collins gave them both an apologetic look and followed his DI.

And Sheridan . . . well, they hadn't made him a Detective Inspector because of his looks. He was very good at his job and, factoring in this little scene along with the information he had gotten from Collins, he put two and two together and got three and a half. He raised an eyebrow at the men and mildly asked, "Miss Fisher?"

The belligerent one spat and nodded, throwing a scowl in the direction Jack Robinson had gone. Hmm. It seemed both members of this – whatever the hell it was – were capable of inspiring exceptionally strong loyalty.

Things were getting more intriguing by the moment. He only hoped the fallout didn't level the city.

The paperwork would be hell.

* * *

Phryne would have sworn that what happened next occurred in slow-motion – or maybe a dream. As Nelson opened his belt – and one of his lackeys held her down by the shoulders while the other slouched against the wall by the mattress with eager anticipation in his eyes – she tensed in preparation for the inevitable. There was nothing he would get without using force and by God, she _would_ make him work for every last inch. If nothing else, she would leave Jack enough evidence to hang him ten times over.

Rough hands on her ankles wrenched her attention back and she speared the bastard with a look that would have stopped a whale mid-leap. "If you do this," she snarled fiercely, her hands clenching into fists, "it will take six months to find enough of you to make a memory."

Nelson actually hesitated for a few seconds before laughing and starting to yank her trousers down.

"Well, sweetheart, since you came alone, I doubt that," he drawled. "You'll just be one more silver-tail who got caught up in more fun than she could handle."

A tremendous crash from the door slamming open prevented Phryne from making another desperate attempt to stall. However, the room itself was so small that when the door swung in, it knocked Nelson off-balance. More importantly, it shoved him forward, which forced him to release her ankles. And whatever else people might say about Phryne Fisher (and they said plenty), she had superb reflexes. Since her legs were unbound, she drew one bare foot back and kicked Nelson in the face as hard as she could. A sickening crunch echoed through the room as blood spurted and everyone paused for a startled moment as Nelson dropped to the floor like a stone, howling in agony and trying to grab his nose.

The tall, brawny man who'd barreled through the door was on him before he could get that far, handcuffing him with savage satisfaction. Behind him, three more men flowed into the increasingly cramped room, and in a matter of minutes it was over: the head of the slave ring and two of his main henchmen had been subdued, cuffed, and led away. Her actual rescuer came to the mattress after seeing Nelson safely into custody and blanched, tearing off his coat and gently laying it over her lower body before producing a key to the shackle around her left wrist and quickly unlocking it before carefully, respectfully, helping her to sit up.

As she realized that it was over and she was safe – and relatively unharmed – Phryne began to shake. Her rescuer swore softly and laid a hesitant hand on her shoulder. Phryne didn't shove it off, but she did tense and curl more tightly into herself. Another quiet curse drifted to her ears as the man quickly went to the door. She took advantage of the space to take a deep, shuddering breath in an effort to regain control, only to lose her tenuous hold on her emotions when she heard Hugh Collins gasp, "Miss Fisher!"

Tears blurred her eyes as she looked up at him and his expression changed rapidly from shock to anger, with what appeared to be a brief stop at horror on the way. He was kneeling beside her in a heartbeat, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders and letting her huddle into his side, shivering. He left his arm around her as he said, "Thank you for getting me, Inspector Sheridan. If it's all right, I'll take it from here."

The inspector – Sheridan – hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking between Phryne, Collins, and the door. A blatant question was on his face, but Collins held strong. "I'll take it from here, Sir," he repeated firmly. "He'll need you."

Sheridan blew out a breath and nodded to Collins before giving Phryne a deep nod – almost a bow. "I'm glad you're all right, Miss Fisher," he said quietly, and she pulled away from Hugh so she could meet his eyes.

"Thanks to you, Inspector Sheridan," she told him with absolute seriousness. "If you ever need anything, you have only to ask."

Sheridan opened his mouth to say something, but in the end, he only made that almost-bow again and left the room. Phryne abruptly became aware of the fact that she was wearing torn pants and two men's coats while being comforted by a baby constable (a competent one, to be sure, but a baby nonetheless). "I'd like to go now, Hugh," she whispered as she pulled her trousers back into place and straightened in preparation for standing.

"Of course, Miss Fisher," Collins replied hastily, going beet red. Phryne wondered at that before deciding she didn't care. The poor boy had doubtless seen a flash (or several) of skin that wouldn't be considered 'decent.' She did maintain her grip on his arm as she carefully got to her feet and resettled his jacket around her shoulders. Her composure was starting to return and she pulled away from Hugh, doggedly making her way to the door. He was right behind her and gently indicated that she should go left, away from the action, where the last remnants of the operation were being mopped up.

And Hugh, bless him, said not a word as he escorted her down the hall and to a side entrance. The sunlight took her by surprise and Phryne closed her eyes, light-sensitive after spending so long in extremely dim lighting. Nor did he speak as he shielded her eyes, guided her to a car, helped her in, and headed for her hotel. She spared a minute to bless good Protestant boys with manners before leaning back into the seat and not thinking about anything at all.

There was an awkward moment when they arrived at the Seacastle Hotel, but Hugh quickly diffused it by getting out, coming to her door, and offering her his arm. He still had yet to say anything and she was immeasurably grateful for that, even though the thought of having to give her statement loomed over her like the Sword of Damocles. She honestly wasn't sure she could recount the day's events with any kind of equanimity.

Dot met them in the lobby and the worry plastered on every line of her body stirred guilt in Phryne, but she said nothing as Dot hugged her fiercely, sniffling. She merely returned the embrace for several intense moments before pulling away and letting Hugh and Dot comfort – or perhaps reassure – each other. After they broke apart, she cleared her throat and met Hugh's eyes.

"Before I give my statement, I'd like to bathe," she began, only to trail off when he shook his head.

"That's all right, Miss. I won't be taking your statement today."

This was surprising in the extreme, but when Phryne searched his face, she found no deceit or badly-hidden information.

Which meant that it wouldn't be Jack.

The realization was the straw that broke the camel's back and only sheer will kept her from crumpling right then and there. He really didn't care, and she was a fool. She was only vaguely aware of Dot shooing Hugh away before taking her arm and leading her to their suite.

Once inside the room, Phryne was gently deposited on the sofa and undressed, her shivering a silent counterpart to Dot's sniffles.

She couldn't dredge up the energy to speak until she was wearing only her plushest dressing gown and Dot was making preparations for a hot bath.

"I'm sorry, Dot," she murmured to her knees, clasping her hands together.

There was a prolonged silence.

"I know, Miss, but – Miss, you can't keep leaving everyone behind. You could have been hurt or – or killed!" her companion burst out, looking astonished at herself.

With a sigh, Phryne nodded and accepted the rebuke, though she did want to explain her reasoning.

"I know, Dot, and you're right, but . . . this business – slave trading – was something I had no intention of exposing you to. As horrible as it was for me" (here she shuddered) "it would have been beyond unconscionable for you. And I did make sure you knew where I was going, in case there was a problem."

She paused and met the younger woman's eyes in an effort to convey how serious she was about this.

"I know you want to protect me, Dot, and that's fine . . . but there are some things you should not be in contact with under any circumstances. And no," she said over Dot's objection, holding up a hand, "this is not something _anyone_ should be exposed to, but my background gives me a certain – let's call it an understanding of the evil that men can do."

This was a new realization for Dot and it showed in the way she subsided with an admittedly reluctant nod. "I understand, Miss," she sighed, "even though I don't like it."

And that seemed to be it for the moment, until Dot stirred herself to practicalities.

"What do you want to do first, Miss? Eat? Bathe? Rest?"

"YES," Phryne said firmly as her stomach growled, which earned a small smile from Dot – it was still unhappy, but not as much as it had been, so Phryne counted that as a win.

It would do for now.

* * *

When he was asked later, Jack could remember very little of the raid itself, other than the fact that it went smoothly and had no police casualties. Truthfully, that made it one of the best and biggest operations either station had seen in the last decade and all of their superiors were highly pleased.

After, though . . .

The section of the warehouse that he and his team had been assigned included the room where the most recent group of abductees was being held, the living quarters for five of the slavers (which, fortuitously, had all five men in them), and a plethora of rooms that were currently empty but showed obvious signs of use. To the officers' extreme disgruntlement, none of the slavers attempted to run or fight back, which meant they had no excuse to shoot them. As such, their handling of their prisoners wasn't what one could call 'gentle.' A shame, that.

Throughout the duration of the task, Jack had been totally focused on getting it done as neatly and efficiently as possible, and so had successfully prevented himself from thinking about _her._ But it was over now, bar the shouting, and he'd heard nothing. Fear was beginning to claw its way free from the box he'd locked it in and with it was a quiet sort of rage. If she'd been hurt, then the fools who had taken her had signed their own death warrants, because he would hunt them down to the ends of the earth.

The tenor of his thoughts alarmed the inspector and he summoned Hawkins with a brusque command, stepping back from the line of prisoners he was processing and taking several deep breaths in an effort to calm down. He was gradually getting there when he heard Sheridan's voice amidst the general cacophony surrounding him. He spared a moment to be thankful the man was apparently unharmed, but then he heard her name and looked up eagerly, only to scowl with disappointment as the DI shoved Wayne Nelson roughly into the line.

The impatient demand of Phryne's whereabouts died on his lips as Jack blinked at the sight of him: he had blood all over his face and shirt, his nose was one step shy of flattened, and his right eye was almost swollen shut. Someone had hit him in the face, hard, and he felt a surge of vicious satisfaction. Giving the man another once-over, he also noted the rather rough cast of his features, the simple but high – well, not 'high' quality, but definitely 'good' quality clothing.

And the open belt hanging slack on unbuttoned trousers.

Jack went completely, utterly, still. The only thing in his world at that moment was his horrified understanding of what Nelson's state of undress had to mean. His mind violently tried to reject the knowledge, the comprehension, of what this man had done to – had done –

His vision flared white and he went berserk. A roar of sheer, primal rage burst from his throat as he lunged for Nelson, slamming the heel of his hand into the left side of his breastbone and sending him crashing against the wall, choking for air as the strike caused his heart to stutter. Before anyone could move, Jack was on him, one arm circling his neck in a half-Nelson and the other coming around to grab his chin in preparation for snapping the son of a bitch's neck. He glared into the other man's eyes with a fury that blazed so hot it had frozen, wanting to _**see**_ the life drain from them.

Before he could get his hand in position, it was yanked back with brutal force and he turned on his assailant with a snarl, furious beyond reason that he had been stopped. He could hear nothing but the clamor for Nelson's death roaring in his ears, so the harsh strike to his cheek was enough of a shock to bring him partway (a very small part) back to sanity. Breathing like he'd just run the length of Australia, he glared at Wesley Sheridan with virulent hatred and growled a wordless warning: release him or suffer the consequences.

And Sheridan did. Which was surprising enough that a little more of his rage receded, but not nearly enough for Nelson to be safe. Sheridan was studying him with a deeply intent gaze and whatever he saw made him nod, which confused the hell out of Jack – until a revolver was pressed into his hand. _That_ was so unexpected that Jack released the piece of filth from his bruising grip and gawped at the weapon, his mind scrambling to make sense of it. Dazed, with most of him still howling for Nelson's blood, he looked from the gun to Sheridan, back again, and then over to Nelson, which made his rage flare back up, before pinning a look of brutal demand on the other DI. He tried to ask 'why,' but his voice refused to work.

Luckily, Sheridan was neither naïve nor stupid. Without looking away from Jack, he simply said, "The prisoner tried to escape. You had no choice."

Jack blinked stupidly at him before looking almost manically at the group of policemen who were currently surrounding them. One by one, they all nodded when his gaze touched theirs, and when he came back to Sheridan, the other man gestured to Nelson, who was still slumped against the wall behind Jack.

Then he, along with the circle of officers, turned their backs.

Jack stared incredulously at the sight for a few more seconds before Nelson gave a wet cough. His attention caught, the inspector turned back to his prey and was gratified to see fear in the man's eyes, which turned to terror as Jack contemplated the gun he now held before leveling an assessing gaze on his neck. The desire to feel the bones snapping beneath his hands was so strong he could taste it, but he refrained through sheer willpower.

He would not let these brave, loyal officers lie for him and cover up a premeditated murder. Had Sheridan not stopped him . . . but he had and Jack had been (unwillingly) returned to sanity. Nelson would live, at least until the trial verdict came back and he went to the gallows. It wasn't enough, wasn't _nearly_ enough, but it would do. It had to.

Jack heaved a giant sigh and stepped back, preparing to turn away. But as he did so, he saw the smirk that came to Nelson's bloody mouth. The sight triggered his rage and with nary a sound, he slammed his open hand into the bastard's nose, bouncing him off the wall to sprawl in an ungainly heap on the floor while a high-pitched keen of agony ground out through clenched teeth. He was vaguely aware of the startled looks he was getting from the watching officers as he dropped to a crouch next to the prone Nelson, but right then, he wouldn't have cared had the entire population of Melbourne been lined up to watch. Jack said nothing, merely gazed at him until sense returned to his eyes. When he was sure the man was fully in the moment, Jack let a small, deadly smile touch his lips . . . and as he came to his feet, he drove the handle of the revolver up into Nelson's crotch with all the strength he could muster.

Nelson screamed and convulsed in agony as Jack watched dispassionately. He didn't move even when Nelson, unable to roll onto his side because of the way his hands were shackled, vomited down his chest — which obviously caused excruciating pain, given that he promptly passed out. Jack stayed where he was a moment longer, and then looked to the officers who had been so willing to protect him. Shame rushed through him at the memory of what they'd been prepared to do and he offered them a quiet 'thank you' filled with every ounce of respect he possessed. He got a wordless acknowledgement (along with several expressions of disbelief, awe, and fear) before they turned their attention back to their prisoners – who were all staring at him with some combination of horrified shock – and he turned to Sheridan.

After calmly handing him the gun, Jack quietly, evenly, said, "Tell me where she is."

The other man swallowed hard before replying.

"Constable Collins escorted her back to her hotel, Inspector."

Anger surged, but just for a moment. With his next breath, Jack thanked God that she was away from this place and everything associated with it. However, 'back to her hotel' didn't answer his question.

"And where is that, Sheridan?" he asked dangerously. They'd dragged him back to sanity, but it would take very little to send him spiraling over the edge again and he saw no reason to hide that fact. The other man went pale as he spoke and his eyes sparked with fear. It was just for a moment, though, and then understanding washed over his face, along with a strong hint of self-recrimination. He shot a scorching glare to the dark-haired man currently hauling Nelson off the floor, took a deep breath, and stepped close, lowering his voice to keep the conversation private.

"Jack, she's fine. He didn't get that far. She wasn't . . . she's all right. Just a little bruised, I swear. We got there in time. I'm sorry; I thought you'd been told."

He stood stock-still as the words resonated in his mind, his very soul. If it was true . . .

"Did he touch her?" he rasped, capturing Sheridan's gaze with furious intensity.

The other man took another deep breath and nodded. "He did," the inspector confirmed. "But only just, and when I came in the door, the first thing she did was kick him in the face so hard they felt it in Adelaide. She was glorious, Jack. And I swear on my honour, she's unharmed."

Jack closed his eyes with a shudder, letting that reassurance wash over him.

He needed to see her. Now.

"Wesley," he began as he met the man's gaze, "I know I shouldn't ask but —"

"For God's sake," Sheridan exclaimed quietly. "Go! It isn't like anyone will notice and if you think I'm putting up with longing, heartfelt sighs for the next few hours, I'll have you examined for a concussion."

Jack couldn't help but smile, though it was small and not particularly happy.

"Thank you," he said with total sincerity, offering his hand. Sheridan took it and after a quick shake, tilted his head to the left. "There's a side entrance you can use," he informed Jack. "And there should be a car close by. She's at the Seacastle Hotel; I don't know the room number."

Jack nodded in wordless gratitude and left without another word or look back. She was alive, so the world wouldn't burn.

It was only then that he realized he would have lit the first match.

* * * *  
_tbc_


	5. The Day the Earth Stood Still

Dot ran a critical eye over her mistress, taking careful note of the livid bruise forming on her left wrist, the assorted scrapes on her arms and legs, and the slight swelling of her left ankle. There was remarkably little blood, though the scrapes were raw and painful-looking, and Hugh had assured her that a worse assault had been averted. She left Miss Fisher drowsing on the sofa while she hurried to the front desk and the waiting concierge (a rather cheerful young man this time).

Ten minutes later, she was back in the room, gathering up Miss Fisher's torn and dirty shirt and trousers, stockings, and underthings. With a shudder, she jammed the lot of it into a bag; even if she could repair them, she wouldn't. Not with the memories of today clinging like a leech. Hugh's coat she hung on a spare hanger before going to work on brushing it off and getting it generally respectable again. She was just finishing up when a quiet knock indicated the arrival of Miss Fisher's meal.

Dot had to give Maxwell full marks for both discretion and expertise: he made barely a sound as he pushed in a cart loaded with food, champagne, and two filled ice buckets, and she was reluctantly impressed that he seemed utterly oblivious to the dirty, disheveled woman on the sofa. She waited until he had laid everything out (she would have done it, but not silently, and she vowed to learn that particular skill once they returned home) and soundlessly exited the room with the bag containing the clothes Miss Fisher had been wearing. Once he was gone, she quickly ladled a few scoops of ice onto a tea towel provided for the purpose, then made a small pouch and wrapped the whole thing into a thin kitchen oilcloth that had also been provided for that reason. She did the same for a second ice pack before turning her attention to Miss Fisher's meal.

Whether it was the smell of fresh lobster or the clanking of dishes that roused her mistress, Dot couldn't say, but she rose from the sofa and stumbled blearily to the table, all but collapsing into a chair and nearly forgetting her fork entirely in favour of getting the food in her mouth. Dot couldn't help a soft snuff of laughter at the sight of the always-impeccably elegant Phryne Fisher trying to eat lobster with her fingers. She got an answering smile and an inquiring forkful held up to her. As her stomach had yet to completely unclench from the worry that had plagued her from the moment she had found Miss Fisher gone this morning, hunger was the last thing Dot was feeling, and she shook her head. Her mistress made a substantial dent in the food before pausing to take a drink, and Dot was again surprised to see her drain the entire glass of water in one go.

Setting the glass down, Miss Fisher sighed and went back for another forkful of rice, savouring it this time instead of inhaling it, which let Dot prop her injured foot on the other chair, nestled in one ice pack, and wrap the other one around her bruised wrist. She ate more slowly and had only drunk another half-glass (champagne this time) when Maxwell returned with an assortment of bathing paraphernalia. Dot left her to finish her meal while she got the bath ready, including soothing salts (for the bruising), scented soaps (because Miss Fisher swore that plain soaps gave her hives), and bubbles (to help her from feeling so exposed, and also because she loved them), and returned in time to see him out with a quietly sincere 'thank you.' Now that she'd had sustenance, the events of the day seemed to catch up with Miss Fisher all at once and she very nearly fell asleep on the table. Dot had to grab her to keep her in the chair.

"No, Miss, you need to soak your muscles and clean up, and then you can rest as long as you want. I promise. But you have to get up and in the bath. Please," she entreated, carefully urging the other woman to her feet and into the bathroom. The violet dressing gown dropped to the floor as Miss Fisher cautiously stepped into the tub and sank into the hot water with a wince that almost immediately transformed to an expression of bliss.

"Thank you, Dot," she murmured. "You are truly a treasure and wherever you want to go on vacation after this is yours for the asking."

Dot immediately objected. "Oh, no, Miss, I couldn't possibly —"

"You can and will, Dot, and that's final," Miss Fisher interrupted. "But for the moment, I think I'd like to be alone."

Dot nodded quickly. "Of course, Miss. Let me know if you need anything."

She got a vague handwave in response and stepped out of the bathroom, heading back to the bedroom to get it ready. She'd only just started plumping the pillows when she heard a quiet knock. Wondering who on earth it could be, Dot hurried across the carpet and pulled the door open with a scowl, ready to send whoever it was on their way with a few sharp words – only to go completely still when she saw their unexpected visitor.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson met her eyes.

* * *

When Miss Williams opened the door and saw him, Jack actually felt fear when he saw her expression . . . which was not something he had ever associated with the girl. Were it not for her strong, natural distaste for violence, he had little doubt that she would have slapped him for his role in her beloved mistress' pain.

And he would have made not one move to stop her.

Still, the events of the day had finished bringing him to his senses and after hearing what had (nearly) happened to Phryne – and after what he had almost done in response – he needed to see that she was safe more than he needed to breathe. For that, he would pay any price.

"Inspector," Phryne's companion said coldly, glaring at him with icy brown eyes.

Bowing his head, with remorse showing in every line of his body, Jack humbly murmured, "Miss Williams. How – how is she?"

Her eyes narrowed. After nearly a minute of unnerving scrutiny, she finally said, "Miss Fisher's condition is of no concern to you," with a frigid politeness that was worse than a completely justified rage would have been.

Jack flinched, hating with every fiber of his being that she was right. Knowing that it was his own fault just rubbed salt in the wound. A sane man would have accepted the decree and left, waiting a bit before trying again . . . and Jack Robinson was known by – well, by everyone – as a sane man.

Until it came to one Phryne Fisher. And maybe he didn't have the right, but until he saw that she was alive and safe, he wasn't going to budge. If that meant that Phryne herself had to come to the door and send him away, so be it. At least he would know.

Some of that must have shown on his face, because the girl's expression softened. A bit. Maybe a ___soupçon_. Knowing that this was very likely the only chance he would get, Jack cautiously tried again.

"Please, Miss Williams," he breathed, steadily holding her gaze. "I – I know I have no right to ask, but I _need_ to see her. And if she tells me to leave and never come back, then —"

He broke off to swallow, hating the very thought even as he mentally braced himself for the impact.

"— then I will. I just . . . I can't . . . please," he implored (be honest with yourself, Jack, begged) her.

She softened a little more, sympathy rising for just a moment in her eyes. She gave him another long, considering look, making him nervous in a way he never would have thought possible (maybe he should see if Phryne would be willing to work with the department's female officers; she'd certainly done wonders with Miss Williams. Assuming, of course, that she would speak to him, or see him, or even acknowledge his presence.).

Jack stoically endured the silent interrogation. He wasn't the gambling sort and even if he had been, there were no cards left to play. He loved Phryne Fisher with everything he was and though he could live without her, he deeply, desperately, didn't want to. If it was too late – if the trust he had so cravenly thrown away was irrevocably gone – then he would accept that and go about rebuilding his life, but he had to hear it from her.

"If you hurt her again —" Dot started with actual menace in her voice and pure, steely determination completely washing away the sympathy in her eyes.

"Never," Jack promised hoarsely, the knot in his chest loosening a little. "I would sooner cut out my heart than knowingly cause her pain again. I swear it."

Good God, he sounded like a hormonal teenager (or worse, Romeo – who _was_ a hormonal teenager). But he meant every word.

She shook her head at that and his stomach sank.

"You don't know what it's been like," she almost whispered, shooting a furtive look over her right shoulder.

"No," Jack agreed quietly, looking down. "No, I don't, and – I can't undo it, Dot, and I can't change it. All I can do is apologize and try to go forward."

He paused and looked straight into the girl's eyes, willing her to see his resolve while he bared the last hidden part of his soul.

"And I want to go forward with her."

* * *

Dot couldn't help but be moved by the inspector's obvious pain. She felt no guilt about keeping him away from Miss Fisher, because he might love her, but he had almost destroyed her in his attempt to protect himself. But she also knew that he had been just as miserable as her mistress, albeit in a much more subdued way. Over the past two months, Hugh had become more and more concerned about his DI, who had apparently managed to almost completely withdraw into himself while simultaneously becoming reckless.

It had actually gotten bad enough that a few days before Miss Fisher took this case, Hugh had come to her with the serious proposal of locking the two of them in a small (sound-proofed) room until they came to their senses. She had hushed him immediately, but it would have shocked him senseless to know just how tempting she found the prospect (Mr Butler would have helped. And Jane. And Dr MacMillan. And probably the people who lived next door.).

She had every intention of standing firm and not letting him in, but when he actually _begged_, it almost broke her heart. And when he admitted, out loud, that he loved Miss Fisher, she capitulated. Her mistress might still be angry with him, but after the day's events, she desperately needed comfort. And Dot just couldn't provide the same sense of security, as much as she might wish to.

Still, that was no reason to make it easy on him.

"**IF** I let you see her," she began firmly, glaring at him for good measure, "then you will be respectful, accommodating, and understanding. Should you upset her in any way, I _will_ have Constable Collins arrest you for harassment."

His expression, which had been suitably repentant, went slack with surprise at that. His jaw actually dropped in shock as she continued.

"And he will, Inspector. I've already made sure of it. What she's been through —"

Her voice broke as Dot tried to fight back tears at the reminder.

"I don't think she can take any more, so if you can't do that, then you need to leave," she finished steadily, though her voice did waver a bit. The inspector, for his part, looked like he'd been sucker-punched.

"I swear on my honour, Dot, that I will do nothing she doesn't want. And if what she wants is for me to leave, then I'll go."

He said it with such genuine resolve that most of her doubts faded. She still had a few, and likely would for some time, but he obviously knew how badly he had erred. Also, he had used not only her first name, but her _nickname_. In the entire time she'd known him, he had never addressed her as anything but Miss Williams. The events of the day had clearly rattled him more than she had first thought. But most importantly, he seemed willing to do what was necessary to fix this. Dot couldn't deny him that, but he would only get one chance. She couldn't say that, though; it wasn't her place. In the end, it was Miss Fisher's decision, and Dot would abide by it.

She stepped back from blocking the entrance and nodded to the bathroom door. "Remember," she warned him, and, with mild surprise, saw him flinch before he nodded.

And it should have – would have, under any other circumstances – shocked her beyond belief that she was willfully sending a man to her mistress' bath without her express knowledge, much less permission, but Dot knew as well as the inspector did that this would be his only chance. If he blew it, that was on him, but Miss Fisher was stubborn and proud enough that if she were in full control of the situation, she would cut off her nose to spite her face as a show of strength.

And Dot was so very tired of seeing her unhappy. Especially when there was a solution at hand. And if Miss Fisher was angry or upset about Dot's decision, she would accept full blame. But being with the inspector made her happy and that was all Dot wanted. That was all anyone in her household wanted. So Dot would do something she would have found unthinkable even yesterday, and damn the consequences. And then she would go to confession.

With a final warning look to Inspector Robinson, she gathered her coat and left the hotel room, clutching her crucifix with one hand and silently whispering a prayer: _please, God, let this work. Let her be happy again._

The course was set. All she could do now was hope.

And pray.

* * *

Phryne couldn't help the sigh that escaped her at the gentle knock on the door, interrupting her contemplation of which scent she wanted to use. She knew Dot was worried, but she didn't think she had the fortitude for even the most well-meaning hovering right now. She was still feeling fragile, both from what Nelson had done and the realization that Jack hadn't come, and it was going to take time – and space – for her to regain her equilibrium.

Still, she couldn't turn Dot away, and so she sighed again before calling, "Come in!" as she brought a dark pink soap labeled 'Passion Berry' close for a test sniff. The door opened and she heard quiet footsteps, but they stopped after only four paces. Phryne didn't think anything about it at first, but when Dot neither came closer nor spoke, she looked up curiously.

Jack was staring at her, his clothes dirty and smeared with blood, his hair disheveled, and his eyes a little wild. He was such a jarring contrast to her neat, buttoned-up, respectable inspector that Phryne actually wondered if she was hallucinating.

Though why she would hallucinate a Jack who was in her bathroom – while she was bathing – and still wearing clothes was a mystery.

Her (admittedly ridiculous) train of thought was interrupted when he took a step forward and rasped, "Phryne," with such . . . God, there was so much in his voice. Longing, regret, relief . . . she cursed herself for a fool, but the simple fact that he'd come to her made tears spring to her eyes and she had to look away, taking a deep breath as she tried not to cry.

Or slap him, but that required considerably more energy than she currently possessed.

"Phryne," he breathed again, the syllables of her name sounding almost like a prayer. "Phryne, I'm so sorry. For everything. I —"

"No," she interrupted him sharply, her head coming up as she furiously met his eyes. He looked stricken, but not surprised, and while the sight was satisfying, it also stabbed her heart with unwilling sympathy. But she still had some pride left and they were not having this conversation now.

Appearing heartsick, he nodded and took a step toward the door, dropping his gaze as he murmured, "I understand. I won't – I won't bother you again, Miss Fisher, and I apologize for the intrusion; I just wanted to see that you were all right. I'll, uh, I'll go now."

"Jack . . . "

His name slipped out of its own volition, but she was desperately glad to see him and time had given her enough perspective to grudgingly admit that she carried some fault in the breakdown of their relationship. He paused mid-step and waited, but he didn't look at her, and she frowned as she studied him. Even though they had gone two months with no contact, she still knew him well enough to read him – and right now, she was seeing shame, self-loathing, and a kind of hopeless desperation. Her frown deepened as she tried to fathom what on earth could have happened to so thoroughly distress her utterly unflappable inspector. Concern swelled up and with only a slight hesitation, Phryne held out her hand.

"Jack. Look at me, please," she coaxed when he shuddered at his name but made no other move. He visibly steeled himself before meeting her eyes and when he saw her outstretched hand, disbelief flitted across his face before it gradually transformed to hope. He swallowed hard but slowly came to her side when it became clear that the invitation was real. Sinking to his knees beside the tub, he clasped her fingers gently in his, bringing them to his lips before cradling them to his heart. The tenderness writ large in every move brought a soft smile to her face, one that he returned without reservation, and she flattened her hand against his chest, closing her eyes as she listened to his heartbeat, and matched her breathing to his.

Neither of them moved for a few minutes, but he eventually murmured her name and she looked up at him, just drinking in his presence. "Shh," she whispered. "We'll talk, Jack, but not now. Right now, I just want to be with you, if you can."

He gave a soft chuff of laughter before telling her with complete sincerity, "Phryne, if you want a piece of the moon, then give me an hour."

. . . that was unexpected. It wasn't _unwelcome,_ exactly, but Phryne really didn't want to be treated like porcelain. It would take some time for her to come to terms with this experience, but she wasn't going to break.

"That's sweet of you, Jack, but no. What on earth would I do with a piece of the moon? I mean, what would I wear it with?"

He huffed in genuine amusement and let his forehead rest against their joined hands.

"Oh, Phryne," he said softly. "I have missed you."

She began to admonish him for starting this conversation, but he said nothing else; instead, he reached out and snagged a fluffy white washcloth. After placing a soft kiss in her palm, he released her hand, dipped the cloth in the water for several seconds, and plucked the soap she hadn't realized she was still holding out of her fingers. A few brisk rubs got the washcloth thoroughly lathered up and he gently began to wash her arm, his eyes never leaving hers.

There was reverence in his touch, and adoration, and every stroke was a caress. After the first few, Phryne just closed her eyes and leaned back, allowing herself to bask in his presence. After he finished her left arm (and hand, and each finger, leaving her well on the way to melting from the pure pleasure of his touch), he paused to re-soap the washcloth and then started on her shoulders. She managed to hold back her flinch when he rubbed the cloth over a rather tender bruise and was thankful that he didn't notice (didn't notice? This was Jack. She was thankful that he _pretended_ not to notice.). With those same long, caressing strokes, he washed her shoulders, the nape of her neck (which elicited a shiver of utter delight), and the whole of her back.

Phryne made a displeased noise low in her throat when she realized that she'd have to move so he could reach her other arm. A gentle finger against her lips stilled her and she watched through half-closed eyes as he stood with that fluid grace she loved so much. He gathered two towels before he knelt back down at her other side and gave her a crooked smile as he re-wet the washcloth once again, and she couldn't take it anymore. Before he could apply more soap, she reached out and cradled his jaw, her fingers tenderly stroking along his cheekbone. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, covering her hand with the greater masculine strength of his and nuzzling into her palm as he sighed with contentment. They stayed that way for a few minutes before he stirred and pulled back, getting more soap and starting on her right arm.

Once he'd finished her torso (except for her breasts, and even Phryne wouldn't push that. Not right now.), Jack carefully put her arm back in the water, knee-walked down about two feet, and gave her a significant look. It took a moment for her to catch his meaning, but she lifted her right leg up and braced it on the edge of the tub, using the bubbles to preserve her modesty (now was still not the time). Jack repeated his ritual of wet-and-lather, bent down to place a soft kiss on the top of her foot, and began washing her leg with the same care and attention he'd lavished on the rest of her.

After he'd gotten everything but her intimate parts, he looked around and then got up, heading for the vanity. She wondered why until the sound of the sink running came to her ears; he returned to her shortly, holding a full cup of water in one hand and her shampoo bottle in the other. Phryne gave him a brilliant smile, which earned her a shy curve of his lips in response, and carefully sat up to give him the best access. He dropped back down beside her and after placing the side of his hand against her forehead to keep the water from getting in her face, he proceeded to wet her hair.

"Keep your eyes closed," he breathed in her ear, and she couldn't help but shiver. She loved Jack's voice; had done from the beginning. He kissed her shoulder in response and she felt his smile. Ah, well. He'd earned it – especially when he began to massage the shampoo into her hair. It turned out that her detective inspector had spectacularly talented hands (a fact that she most assuredly took note of) and in no time at all, Phryne was nearly asleep. She dozed through the lather and rinse, and only roused when Jack stopped touching her. A low chuckle greeted her involuntary pout and she looked over her shoulder to see him standing at the head of the tub, towel ready to receive her.

Phryne carefully rose and stepped into him, noting with mild amusement that even now, he wouldn't look directly at her, letting him wrap the soft material about her and leaning against him once he was done. His arms came around her in a warm, full-body embrace, and they simply stood there for a bit, saying nothing. Jack finally sighed and stepped away, picking up the second towel and kneeling in front of her. With the same tenderness he'd used while bathing her, he dried off her feet and legs before smoothly rising to tend her hands and arms, then her shoulders and back, finishing with her hair. By the time he was done, Phryne was almost asleep again and she only vaguely registered him maneuvering her into her dressing gown before he gently, carefully, gathered her up and carried her to the bedroom. She woke up enough to protest when he pulled away after getting her settled, but he stilled her with a sweet, loving kiss to her lips.

"Ssh. Sleep, Phryne. I have to finish up at the station and you need to rest, but I'll be back tonight and we'll go to dinner around eight. All right?"

She would much rather have him stay with her but that wouldn't be right, so she nodded and let him go, lightly skimming her fingernails down his forearm just to feel him shiver before she nestled more deeply into her pillow (partly for comfort, but mostly to hide her grin; she'd heard that choked-back moan). From far away, she thought she heard him whisper, "Thank you, Phryne," but the undeniable call of slumber had finally overcome her will and she was asleep before he left the room.

* * *

Dot hadn't gone far, so when the inspector left Miss Fisher's room more than an hour after he'd arrived, looking positively radiant (well, in comparison to his initial appearance. 'Radiant' wasn't a word one generally used to describe Jack Robinson. Ever.), she was immediately on her feet. She surmised that things had gone well, which was a relief on all counts, though the sudden release of tension almost made her knees buckle. Dot hadn't realized how anxious she'd been until now and she suddenly wanted to do nothing but walk the shoreline with Hugh for the rest of the evening.

Not that that would happen, she mused. Hugh would likely be tied up for a few days with this slave ring, and she didn't – wouldn't – begrudge him that, but dating a policeman definitely made carving out some private time difficult.

Her considerations were cut off when she stepped through the door and saw Miss Fisher, sprawled asleep on the bed with her usual abandon, a glass of ice water on the nightstand and a note that mentioned dinner at eight resting against the turned-on lamp. Startled, she went into the bathroom and found it cleaned up: the tub had been emptied, the wet towels and washcloths hung on hooks so they could air, and a bar of drying soap lying in the sink, with Miss Fisher's shampoo sitting on the vanity next to the mirror.

It had to have been the inspector and Dot felt another measure of respect for him return. Clearly, he'd taken superb care of her mistress, which was a strong step on the right track. Dot briefly looked in on Miss Fisher but she was sleeping peacefully, which sent her back to the sitting room, searching for something to occupy her for a while. The covered dishes on the table roused her hunger, so Dot settled herself in a chair, poured a small amount of champagne into the waiting flute, and made herself a plate of lobster, rice, and no-longer-crisp vegetables. It was cold, but surprisingly good, and Dot fell to with a will; it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon and she had eaten nothing all day. After she'd finished her meal, she noticed Hugh's jacket still hanging on the closet door and frowned. It was unlikely the inspector had brought a change of clothes with him, given the reason he was in Inverness, and Dot hadn't forgiven him enough to do his laundry. It seemed a call to Mr Butler was in order.

Some months ago, the inspector had left a change of clothes overnight at Miss Fisher's (something about a stolen Thoroughbred, a missing recipe for peach pie, and bird-watching; Dot most emphatically _**did not**_ want to know) after chasing said horse through a muddy field and being on the receiving end of a nasty knock to the head (she wasn't quite sure which one had happened first). Obviously, his clothes had needed to be laundered, but while Dot had no problem washing his suit, she couldn't bring herself to do his undergarments. It just wasn't proper. And so Mr Butler, being the saint he was, had cleaned the lot for her while the inspector was endeavoring to remove the mud that was caked to his person by way of an enthusiastically-wielded water hose, courtesy of Bert and Cec (Miss Fisher had been banned from his immediate, moderate, and total vicinity for the duration).

Therefore, it stood to reason that Mr Butler had (or could get) his sizes. This in turn meant that she could go out and get a change of clothes for him – and would have to, as it seemed he and Miss Phryne were going out that evening and his current attire looked like it had been used to assault a warehouse and help bring several criminals to justice, never mind rescuing Miss Fisher.

So, given that he had apparently taken the first steps of reconciliation and been given leave to continue, Dot could certainly put aside her anger for a bit and help him on his journey. Taking a deep breath, she called Mr Butler to inquire about getting clothes for Inspector Robinson sent to Inverness with all haste. The relief in his voice was obvious after she told him about the inspector's apology and Miss Fisher's presumed acceptance, and she couldn't help but smile (Mr Butler was a bigger matchmaker than the ladies at church and he'd been deeply distressed at the breach between his mistress and the man she'd chosen).

However, he then proceeded to shock her by telling her he'd already called in a request to a tailor he knew in Inverness. It was so unexpected that Dot was stunned to silence and he finally had to prompt her for a response.

"Dorothy?" he asked in concern, jarring her back to the moment.

"Yes, I'm fine," she assured him. "I just wasn't expecting it to be so easy."

He laughed softly and replied, "Well, that's our Miss Fisher, Dorothy. She delights in surprising us."

As that was God's honest truth, Dot nodded vigorously before remembering that Mr Butler couldn't see her. With a smile in her voice, she said, "Yes, she does, Mr Butler. Now, does this tailor deliver?"

As the words left her mouth, Dot winced. That had been a perfectly stupid question, but she didn't have time to call it back or apologize.

"Dorothy," Mr Butler said disapprovingly. "Do you truly think I'd use a tailor who doesn't?"

"Of course not, Mr Butler!" she exclaimed. "Why, the world would end if you used an incompetent tailor."

"Hmmph," he grunted, allowing himself to be mollified. Dot shook her head with a small smile and tactfully changed the subject with an easy, "Well, then. The evening dress Miss Fisher brought is emerald green, with silver piping and black accents."

"'tis a superb choice," Mr Butler agreed, and Dot had to suppress a giggle. She honestly didn't think any other butler in Australia would be able to identify his mistress' clothing from a verbal description. "I'll add a black suit and complementary tie. Will one regular suit and the evening wear be sufficient, do you think?"

"Very likely," Dot confirmed after giving it a bit of thought, glancing at the clock on the wall. It wasn't quite three and it was unlikely Inspector Robinson would return before seven, if Hugh's rushed explanation was accurate. "Can he have everything ready by seven tonight?" she asked.

There was a considering pause before Mr Butler firmly said, "I'll see to it. Now, you're still at the Seacastle Hotel?"

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dot nodded and 'Yes. Room 207."

"Excellent. Then I need to go so I can call Mr Reynolds and make sure he gets done in time," he told her.

"Thank you, Mr Butler," Dot said happily. "Unless something happens, we should be back in a few days."

"I'll look forward to it," he told her. "And Dorothy?"

"Yes?" she asked curiously.

"Good luck."

He hung up before she could reply and Dot took a moment to assimilate this new development before leaving the suite and heading for the concierge. To her relief, Maxwell was still on duty and he smiled when she walked up.

"Miss Williams," he greeted her with pleasure as he stood. "How may I help you?"

Dot smiled back at him and said, "A package from a tailor named Reynolds will be arriving later this evening," she informed him. "It will have Miss Fisher's name on it, and possibly Jack Robinson's as well. I'd like it delivered to Miss Fisher's suite, please."

He blinked in surprise at that and said, "Uhh . . . will the clothes be for Mr Robinson?"

Dot was taken aback; that wasn't a question a concierge should ask. Then again, Maxwell had proven extremely helpful so far, so she said 'yes' and waited for additional information.

"Then would you rather I put them in his room?" he asked, and it was Dot's turn to blink.

"The inspector has a room?" she asked in amazement.

"Jack Robinson, you said?" the young man asked, picking up the registry book and running his finger down the list of names. He glanced up briefly, took in her affirmative nod, and went back to his list.

"Yes, he has a room," he confirmed. "I took the reservation about an hour ago. Gentleman by the name of Sheridan called it in, made it for two days."

Sheridan . . . the head Detective Inspector for Inverness? This question made Dot resolve that when she and Hugh finally had time together, she was going to get a full accounting of events. There were too many unanswered questions and while Dot would freely admit that she was generally well-content not to know the details of Miss Fisher's various exploits, this case had proved to be an exception.

She thanked the young concierge and started to head back to the suite, only to turn back as a thought came to her. "Does Mr Robinson know?" she asked, mentally marveling at how odd it was to put 'Mister' in front of his name. It just sounded _wrong._

Maxwell was caught off-guard and actually looked flustered for a moment before recovering his composure and searching for . . . presumably the room keys. On finding them both, he nodded to her and said, "I'll catch him when he comes in; I'm on until eight."

Giving him a grateful smile, she swiftly made her back to the room. For the moment, everything was fine: Miss Fisher was well and resting, the inspector was being taken care of, and there was nothing she could do for Hugh. So Dorothy Williams decided to do something completely out of character and indulge herself in a long, hot soak, complete with decadent soaps and sumptuous bubbles. After everything that had happened, she rather thought she'd earned it.

A sentiment Miss Fisher would have wholeheartedly approved.

* * *

Wesley Sheridan's first clue that Jack Robinson had returned to the station came when he looked up from writing his report to shake out a hand cramp (and curse because he'd realized that the International Criminal Police Commission had to be brought in on this and they were the biggest bunch of stuck-up, snobby, self-important people he'd ever had the misfortune to meet) and saw the man standing in his office door, looking hesitant. And also, like he'd been dragged backwards through a desert.

But there was a serenity in his expression that Sheridan wouldn't have believed possible three hours earlier, so whatever had happened with Miss Fisher, he'd lay odds it was a good thing (which was why he'd used his personal expense account to get him a room at Miss Fisher's hotel; call him a romantic. And, after seeing just what the man was capable of when it came to her, not a fool.).

"Inspector," he greeted the other man warmly, gesturing him to a chair.

"Jack, please," was the reply as Robinson carefully eased himself down, trying to avoid getting dirt on everything. As that was a wasted endeavor, Sheridan said so. "Don't bother," he advised with a faint grin. "You aren't the first mud-covered man to sit there and you won't be the last."

That earned him a return grin for a few seconds before Robins — Jack's expression sobered. "Why?" he asked simply, refusing to relinquish Wesley's gaze. He didn't pretend ignorance, because he had come to respect his fellow DI, but even now, he wasn't sure how to answer. It had been a near thing, choosing between letting Robinson snap Nelson's neck and save everyone the trouble of a trial (while destroying his career and quite probably himself in the bargain) or taking a calculated risk to bring him back to sanity by giving him a weapon and explicitly-stated permission (and chancing the possibility that Nelson wouldn't live long enough to hang, remote though it was).

Yes, he'd known Jack was dangerous but it hadn't been the berserker's rage that had scared him; it was the way he had crippled Nelson without a sound or even the smallest hint of emotion. Decisions made in a blind fury were the very definition of 'irrational.' The Melbourne inspector had known precisely what he was doing when he'd used that gun as a battering ram.

On the plus side, it had had the effect of making the remaining prisoners extremely cooperative, highly compliant, and all-around walking adverts for good behaviour. In the aftermath, Wesley could admit to great amusement at seeing some of the vilest men on earth tiptoeing on eggshells even after Robinson had left. It had definitely made the clean-up a hell of a lot faster.

That memory sparked another one, this time of the conversation he'd had with the witnesses to Jack's . . . temporary disagreement with sanity. And it was there that he found his answer.

_The sound of the door falling shut after Robinson served as a catalyst for the rest of the room and in an impressively short amount of time, every member of the ring who was in the building had been arrested, processed, and prepped for transport back to the station. Sheridan took a moment to appreciate the satisfaction he always felt at a successful operation, but it was a short reprieve. He could _feel_ the oppressive stares from the officers who had witnessed the event and it appeared that their patience had run out._

"_Sir, why —" one of his newer constables started to ask, his voice a curious mix of fear and indignation, only to be cut off by Wesley's own second-in-command._

"_That," he said in a rigidly-controlled voice, "was Grade-A stupid, Sir. And bringing us into it?! _What _were you thinking?!"_

_Sheridan bristled at being spoken to in such a manner by a subordinate, but let it go with an aggrieved sigh. Kingston had a point, one that was doubtless shared by the other five men who'd been present for the . . . altercation._

_Still, his reply was sharp, because he wasn't happy about being questioned in that tone in front of his men – and two of Robinson's, actually._

"_I was thinking, Kingston, that the man was in a berserker's rage and in my experience – which, as you know, is extensive —"_

_Sarcasm had drowned the anger in his voice and the other man flushed at the change._

"— _they _cannot _be talked down from it. Usually, all you can do is clear the area and let them wear themselves out. That wasn't an option here."_

_Several nods greeted this statement._

"_So, while I feel safe in saying that not one of us would have shed a tear over Nelson's demise – would have, in fact, cheered and bought him a drink – Inspector Robinson's career would have been over. And I will be DAMNED if I let that happen because of a bastard like Wayne Nelson!"_

_His vehemence astonished everyone but the Melbourne pair, he noticed . . . which didn't surprise him nearly as much as it should have._

"_Also, in case it escaped your notice, Inspector Robinson is an honourable man. No matter how much he wanted to kill Nelson, he wouldn't do it at the expense of your careers. But I had to make the offer, because it was the only thing that stood a chance of getting through to him."_

_Robinson's men were nodding in agreement, which was good for Sheridan as they were helping his case. Kingston still looked rebellious, though, and Sheridan had just begun to worry that this was not going to end well when he caught a glimpse of Miss Fisher's purse (verified by Hugh Collins) and thus, a flash of inspiration._

"_Greg," he said softly, catching his sergeant's eyes. "What if had had been Marissa in that room? What if you hadn't been the one to get her out, and the only information you had was the knowledge that the head of a slave ring was found with her . . . and his pants were open under an untucked shirt?"_

_It might have seemed odd, but there was a legitimate purpose behind that question. Wesley had known several couples who just . . . belonged together and whose connection was so strong it was tangible. Jack Robinson and Miss Phryne Fisher were apparently one such pair, but Gregory Kingston and his wife of nearly two years was another. When Marissa was pregnant with their first child, his poor sergeant had actually experienced a sympathetic pregnancy (much to the well-hidden amusement of his fellow officers)._

_Kingston went pale at the question, while his other three men acquired almost comical looks of horrified understanding, and Wesley let out a silent breath of relief. It had worked._

"_Do you see, now?" he asked anyway, just to clarify. Three emphatic nods, two appreciative ones, and a soft, shell-shocked 'yes' answered him._

"_Good," he said with a joviality that didn't reach his eyes. "Then nothing further will be said of this incident and the only mention of it in your reports will be that Nelson provoked Inspector Robinson and got bounced off a wall for it."_

_His men nodded again, but Wesley was actually shocked into silence when one of Robinson's men – Hawkins, if he recalled correctly – spoke up._

"_Actually, Sir, I think you'll find that I was the one he provoked," he said with deceptive mildness. The unyielding resolve in his eyes was mirrored by his constable, who stepped to Hawkins' side in a show of unity._

_Wesley recovered quickly. "I have no problem with that, but will your inspector accept it?"_

_They exchanged a quick glance before Hawkins looked back at Sheridan. "I don't know. But either way, you'll find that I'm the one who gave Nelson his bruises," he said implacably. Sheridan had his doubts, but they knew their inspector better than he did._

"_Very well. Sergeant Hawkins didn't appreciate being mouthed off to," he said by way of acceptance, which had his four murmuring their agreement. "So if that's settled," he continued in a much lighter tone of voice, "let's get back to the station so we can get this unpleasant business wrapped up. Shall we?"_

_It wasn't a suggestion and no one took it as such; they simply said 'yes, sir' and headed for the main entrance. Sheridan heaved a sigh of complete and utter relief before following._

"I did it, Jack, because it needed to be done. You aren't unique, you know, and you certainly aren't the first man who's ever been in love."

It was bald statement, completely unsoftened by . . . well, anything, and it served its purpose by knocking the anger right out of Detective Inspector Robinson. Wesley wasted no time in following up on his advantage.

"Nor are you the only person to feel protective over the people y – your people," he pointed out a little less harshly.

Robinson seemed to have been utterly robbed of the powers of speech and the confusion stamped all over his face had Wesley sympathizing. Lord knew, he'd been in that state more often than he wanted to admit.

"I've seen that kind of rage before, Jack," he began, watching the other man carefully. "And my choices were limited: I could either let you rip Nelson's head off or do something shocking enough to pull you back from the edge. As much as we might all wish I'd decided on the former, I knew you wouldn't appreciate it. Well, not later."

Understanding crept in the other man's expression, but it came with an obstinate air that earned him an exasperated, "For God's sake, man, quit being stubborn! We _**know**_ exactly what we're saying here, and what it means!"

Sheridan's forceful insistence made Jack lean back in his chair, his features slack with stunned disbelief, and it suddenly occurred to him that the other man honestly didn't understand. Instantly, his entire demeanor softened as he tried again.

"Jack," he started gently, refusing to let him look away. "We've all loved and lost. Every single one of us. And we've all done something stupid – several somethings, if you want complete honesty. Given what you knew at the time, your rage was completely understandable. There's not a man among us who would say otherwise."

He paused to judge the effect his words were having and was rewarded with the beginnings of comprehension – and, more importantly, acceptance.

"And, had it just been us," he continued, his voice strong with belief in what he was saying, "we'd have cheered, helped you bury the body, and bought you a drink or five. But you're not that sort of man," he concluded quietly. "And none of us were prepared to let your career suffer because of Wayne Nelson."

Gratitude and shame competed for space in the inspector's eyes and he tried to look away, but couldn't escape Wesley's relentless hold. "I – I don't —" he stuttered, only to be cut off.

"So I did for you what I'd want done for me: I gave you the only reason you would accept for coming back, because in that regard, we're the same, Jack. The men who serve under us are the most important thing and we're incapable of deliberately harming them."

Jack said nothing as he bowed his head, but Wesley wasn't concerned. He'd seen the understanding and the acceptance in the man's eyes, and mouthed a silent 'thank you' to the heavens. His Melbourne counterpart finally looked up, but the phone rang before he could speak (a thing for which Wesley was profoundly grateful, as he had no desire to do the 'thank you/I must do something to show my gratitude/I'm not worthy' dance that was sure to ensue).

"Inverness Central, Inspector Sheridan speaking," he said in greeting, giving the other man an apologetic look. It was accepted with an easy nod of perfect understanding before Jack got up and quietly left the room.

"Wesley!" a boisterous voice replied, making him wince a little at the volume before realizing who was on his phone.

"Chas?" he asked in surprise, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Did I lose my mind and order a new suit?"

He could think of no other reason for the call, given that Charles 'Chas' Reynolds (who had been one of his oldest friends since grammar school) was one of the premier tailors in Inverness and as such, rarely had time for social calls during business hours.

"No, of course not," came the quick reply. "Though God only knows you need one."

This earned him an eyeroll. Wesley was quite sure that he could have one suit for every day of the year (Leap Year included) and Chas would still insist that he needed a new one.

"You would," Chas replied to his unspoken thought (they knew each other very well, Wesley and Chas). "But that's not why I'm calling."

"Is everything all right?" Wesley immediately asked, concerned.

"Oh, of course," his friend replied easily. "But I do have a conundrum: have you acquired a new inspector that I don't know about?"

"I – what?" Wesley asked in complete befuddlement. "A new inspector?"

"Yes," Chas said slowly. "I just got a call requesting a black suit and a colour-specified tie, as well as a standard grey 3-piece ensemble suitable for a detective inspector, to be ready by this evening. As you're the only jack I know who 1) insists that his men be decently attired and 2) sends every inspector you acquire or promote to me for said decent attire, I naturally assumed it's for one of yours."

Wesley blinked. For good measure, he blinked again. Then he had a thought.

"The name wouldn't be Jack Robinson, would it?" he inquired with a studied casualness that didn't fool his friend for an instant.

An aggravated sigh gusted in his ear.

"I hate it when you do that," Chas grumbled. "You know perfectly well that's his name."

Wesley grinned; it was too easy to tweak Chas and far too much fun. At the same time . . .

"Are you delivering it?" he asked, wondering who on earth would've ordered clothes for the man, only to frown at his own foolishness. Who else would it be?

"Yes," Chas confirmed. "To the – hang on, I need to find the actual order."

Wesley waited with mounting impatience, but fortunately for everyone's sake, the search didn't take long.

"Aha!" came the triumphant cry. "It's to be delivered to the Seacastle Hotel by seven tonight, care of . . . Miss Phryne Fisher?"

He rather horribly mangled the woman's name, but Wesley didn't bother to correct him. He was too busy feeling relief that Jack wasn't being stalked by a deranged admirer.

"Don't think too hard about it, Chas," he advised his friend. "But actually, you won't need to deliver it. I can send him directly to you in about an hour, if you like."

There was a long, irritated silence, finally broken by a massively-sarcastic, "No, Wesley, I want you to let me send out an actual evening suit – _complete with a colour-specific tie_ – sight unseen."

Wesley tried, he did, but he simply couldn't hold back his laughter and Chas joined him after a few minutes. And if Wesley's amusement was tinged with relief, well, who would know? It was an unexpected blessing, being able to laugh at something so banal after the day he'd had.

"All set, then, Chas?" he inquired solicitously, albeit with a hint of mischief.

"Yes," the tailor huffed. "In an hour, you said?" he added thoughtfully, his voice suddenly a bit muffled. Wesley grinned again; he knew from long experience that he'd lost his friend to the siren call of fabrics, fittings, and colours.

"In an hour," he confirmed. Chas grunted in acknowledgement, gave him an absent-minded 'ta-rah,' and hung up. With one last chuckle, Wesley did the same – and suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair.

How the hell was he going to get Jack to accept this?

As it happened, that task was considerably easier than anyone could have predicted. He went directly to Sergeant Banks' office and begged a set a clothes that Jack could wear from the station to Chas' shop. As Banks had been part of the operation, he eagerly agreed and fetched his spare set right then and there. That done, Wesley called Hawkins into his office and outlined the situation. Further proving Jack's penchant for hiring intelligent people, his senior sergeant hummed thoughtfully before saying, "If you can spare two cars, I'll take the inspector to this tailor and leave that car with him, and Shepherd can bring me back here. Will that work?"

"Perfectly," Wesley replied with a smile. "It should take you about fifteen minutes to get there and I told Chas an hour, so you'll need to leave by . . . " he twisted around to look at his office clock, "a quarter to four. The cars out front still have the keys in them, so just grab two. And Hawkins?" he said pleasantly, causing the other man to go still.

"Sir?" he asked cautiously.

"Bring my cars back in one piece —"

"Or you'll take it out of my hide," the younger man finished, grinning. "The DI has the same requirement."

"Good," Wesley said with satisfaction. "Now get back to work," he added with a smile, tilting his head in the direction of the bullpen. The other man nodded and left, leaving Wesley alone in his office. He didn't move for several minutes, choosing to bask in the satisfaction of a job well done – on all accounts. The unexpected sound of cheering caught his attention and he started to rise, but changed his mind at the sudden recollection of the aftermath of his first big case. There was time enough for them to enjoy the feeling of a successful operation, and God knew they'd earned it.

Let them have their win; the world wasn't going anywhere.

* * * *  
_tbc_


	6. Love, Actually

The unexpected offer of a change of clothes had Jack one step away from offering up his first-born child in thanks, particularly when Sergeant Banks just laughed it off with a careless, "It's Thursday, Sir. Of course a change of clothes is necessary."

He couldn't help his soft snort of amusement as Banks went back to his desk, and immediately headed for the showers (feeling rather envious; City South didn't have this particular luxury). Twenty minutes later found him fairly clean, dressed, and starting the rough draft of his report. Given the subject matter, Jack was surprised at how easily the words came, until he considered the atmosphere he was immersed in: most of these men had never been part of an operation of this scale, and it had been enormously successful. Naturally, they were a little drunk on the adrenaline, and the air had a festive feel to it.

The thought made him look up in search of Collins, calling him over with a quick hand gesture once he found him. He did the same for his other six officers and within a minute, his desk was surrounded. Jack gave an approving smile to each man before proudly telling them, "You have done exceptional work today, gentlemen, and for that, I want to thank you. You've never given me less than your best, but on this operation you went above and beyond."

Several variations on 'thank you, Sir' were his answer and he smiled again. If they thought that was good, they were in for a shock.

"So," he continued, "once you get your initial report done, you all have the rest of today, tomorrow, and Saturday off."

He paused expectantly, waiting for that to sink in.

Page understood first and his jaw dropped. "Sir?" he asked incredulously. Jack raised an eyebrow at him and said, "You heard me. Get done and get out of here."

There was one more beat of silence before a grin the size of a horse spread across Mason's face and he let out a whoop that Parsons echoed a heartbeat later. The echo hadn't died before the other four caught on and let out the most uncoordinated cheer in the history of the Inverness police station. The rest of the bullpen was looking at them like they'd gone mad (which, to be fair, wasn't completely inaccurate), but Wilkins eliminated their confusion by announcing his excitement to the world at large. Understanding laughter burst out and Jack leaned back, smiling with pride as his men and Sheridan's merged in a harmonious camaraderie that was rarely seen in rival police stations.

After a few minutes, he went back to his report and was just starting to contemplate how he was going to explain what he'd done to Nelson when Hawkins hesitantly said, "Inspector?"

Startled, Jack looked up and asked, "What is it, Hawkins?"

The younger man hesitated for a moment, then said, "Inspector Sheridan told me to be somewhere at four, but he wants the car back in the lot ASAP. Could you give me a lift?"

"I suppose," Jack replied, puzzled. But he trusted Sheridan, so he tidied his temporary desk before grabbing his keys and borrowed jacket, following Hawkins out the door, and heading unerringly for his own car. The trip passed quietly, the only conversation being directions, and in about fifteen minutes, Jack was pulling up in front of – a tailor's? Curious, he looked at Hawkins, who shrugged and said, "Inspector Sheridan said you'd know what to do."

His instincts were chiming a wary caution now. Suspicious, Jack got out of the car and took a long look around before pinning his man with a hard look. It was returned with complete innocence (which Hawkins wasn't all that good at faking), so he slowly made his way to the shop door, making sure his officer was behind him before he went in.

The light tinkle of a bell came to his ears as he pushed the door open, followed closely by an exuberant bellow of, "And he's on time! Ah, this does bode well indeed!"

Taken aback, Jack stopped dead in his tracks and gaped in sheer disbelief at the tall, skinny man who was rushing at him like a tidal wave, the end of a tape measure flapping behind him like an emaciated bird, and a pencil dangling precariously from one ear. He slid to a halt in front of Jack and without so much as a by-your-leave, yanked his left arm out straight at his side, flipped his tape measure from his neck, and had Jack's armpit to wrist measured before he had time to be offended.

"Have a good evening, Sir," Hawkins called as he bolted for the door. Understanding too late that this was a setup, Jack started to go after him but was prevented by way of an astonishingly strong grip on his lapel. Just before his senior sergeant (soon to be _constable_, Jack vowed grimly) vanished outside, he looked back and added, "The inspector said to tell you to go back to the hotel after this."

Caught completely off-guard, Jack could only stare as Hawkins made his escape. Hotel?

Understanding hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Oh, dear God. Phryne was having him fitted for clothes. He might have to kill her.

The feel of a hand landing on his upper thigh apropos of nothing made him start, which earned him a sharp, "Stand still, _monsieur_," from the man who was taking several liberties with his person. Jack glared down at him, but his planned reprimand fizzled when he caught sight of the ill-fitting clothes he was borrowing and remembered his promise to take Phryne to dinner. He surrendered to his fate with ill-grace, though he did rally enough to demand to know if the clothes had been paid for.

The negative answer made him sag a bit in relief, which in turn resulted in a sharp pinch to his calf and another warning to 'Stand. Still.' Over the next two and a half hours, Jack heard that phrase in every possible variant (and five languages), did more pivots and turns than a ballet dancer, and gained an education about the correct drape and fall of the properly-tailored suit that would have made any university professor luminous with pride.

Even the sight of himself in a hand-tailored black suit and green-striped black tie couldn't overcome his irritation at being ambushed, though he grudgingly admitted that it did look superb (and was so incredibly _comfortable_ that he gave serious consideration to using it as his sleepwear instead of his current loose shorts and short-sleeved shirt). A grey three-piece suit was then presented for his approval. About to refuse, Jack was again reminded that the only clothes he had with him were still at the station, covered in enough dirt to make a desert envious, and he capitulated with a sigh.

Never let it be said that Phryne Fisher wasn't thorough. And he had to concede that it was nice to be taken care of, even in such a high-handed way (though he knew himself well enough to acknowledge that approaching him directly would have failed). It had been so long since someone had taken care of him, or even thought of him. He was always the provider, the protector, and he was happy with that – he was – but it did get lonely sometimes.

He was given the grey suit to wear while the final adjustments were made to the black one, and gratefully escaped his insane tailor's clutches in favour of meandering up the street (the sight of his car still parked in front of the shop made him smile ruefully and shake his head. He had to hand it to Sheridan: the man was a master tactician.). The small, neat row of shops held no interest for him (was it possible to have a negative interest in something?), seeing as they were comprised of yarn shops, linen stores, kitchen wares . . . it was a cornucopia of delight for women's crafts.

Which suddenly made Jack wonder why a men's tailor was planted in the middle of the lot. A minute later, he answered his own question. As a rule, men weren't big fans of tailoring, fittings, or clothes in general, really. Thus, their wives, mothers, and sisters did the majority of their clothes-buying. It only made sense to have the tailor within easy access of their standard shopping area.

A quick glance at his watch sent Jack – well, not hurrying back to Reynolds, but definitely making forward progress in that direction. He actually had to take a moment and mentally fortify himself before stepping inside, unconsciously bracing for some kind of impact. When none came, he blinked and let out a relieved sigh before cautiously calling, "Mr Reynolds?"

"A moment!" came the answer, drifting out from the dressing room. Bored (and curious, in a morbid sort of way), Jack slowly wandered the shop, taking in the different types of suits, jackets, and tuxedos with a kind of horrified fascination, and came to the conclusion that he could have lived and died happily without ever knowing that formal wear wasn't just a phrase. It was a bloody industry.

Approaching footsteps made him turn and he met Charles Reynolds' amused gaze with a flat look that dared the other man to comment. A brief smile flashed but the man said nothing, merely gestured him to the register.

"Here you are, Inspector, signed, sealed, and delivered," he announced as grandly as a ringmaster. It took considerable effort, but Jack refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead, he (mostly) sincerely thanked the man, arranged for the bill to be sent to Melbourne, and escaped into the early evening with an alacrity that would have had every man at City South pulling their weapons on whatever was chasing him.

Once in the car, Jack carefully laid the garment bag in the passenger seat and reached for the starter . . . only to suddenly do his best to hyperventilate as the reality of the situation came crashing down.

He'd just bought a brand-new, hand-tailored suit in preparation for taking Phryne out to dinner to discuss (and finalize?) their relationship. If ever a situation called for panic, he was fairly certain this was it. But he was also disciplined enough to stay in control and after the few minutes of alarm he allowed himself, he started the car and headed for the Seacastle hotel and Phryne.

Yet another surprise greeted him as he walked through the lobby, in the form of the concierge greeting him with suspicious familiarity. Jack's steps slowed and he drew his head back, giving the boy a rather haughty look that hid his confusion.

"Were you looking for me?" he asked in a mildly even tone that would have sent Hugh scrambling out the door to buy tea. On foot. In the next county. The concierge was not made of sterner stuff, and so he went a little pale as he stared at Jack for a moment before he recovered himself.

"Yes, Sir," he replied quietly, holding out a small piece of folded white paper. Jack gave him another arch look before accepting the note and flipping it open. The neat scrawl read _"Inspector Robinson – For services rendered to the Inverness Police Department, we've provided two days of accommodations for you. Please accept this with our deepest thanks. Detective Inspector Wesley Sheridan, Inverness Central Police._

Jack shook his head ruefully; he'd been well and truly managed. But he had to concede that were the situation reversed, he would do much the same. Sheridan's knowledge of the personal aspect of things might have (probably) contributed, but the offer itself was genuine, so he accepted directions and two keys for his room without any further ado. He did make sure to thank the concierge, as the man had only been doing his job. It wasn't his fault that Jack was starting to feel as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

After he let himself in, Jack took a moment to admire his surroundings, but a look at the wall clock had him cursing and rushing to the bathroom. It was after seven and he still needed to properly clean up before he met Phryne at eight.

And if he was acting like a teenager going on his first date, well, he wasn't. His response was completely natural and totally understandable, thank you.

* * *

It was nearly six o'clock when Phryne slowly awoke. Her memories were a bit hazy, but as she stretched and sat up, images from earlier began to clear up: a pale and anxious Dot; the empty refuge of the bathroom; the sight of . . .

. . . the sight of Jack standing at the door, watching her with such incredible longing. The overwhelming emotion in his touch as he bathed her. His heart-stopping tenderness in putting her to bed.

And his quiet promise to be back, to come to her, when his responsibilities were discharged and he was free.

Yawning, Phryne slowly rotated her head, easing the kinks out of her neck. As she looked toward the nightstand, her attention was caught by a note propped against the lamp. Curious, she delicately picked it up; the 'dinner at eight' reminder made her smile with delight — before cursing most soundly. Jack would be here in two hours and she hadn't even begun to get ready!

Carefully rising from the bed, Phryne called Dot's name as she headed for the bathroom. Her companion appeared so quickly that she actually did a double-take, trying to see where she'd come from.

"You're awake, Miss," Dot said happily. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling simply wonderful, Dot!" she exclaimed, giving the girl a quick but exuberant hug.

Beaming, Dot returned the embrace before pulling away and heading for the closet. "I've steamed and pressed your dress for tonight, Miss," she said as she walked, Phryne trailing in her wake. "Your emerald and pearl jewelry is polished, and I did your shoes for good measure."

Phryne blinked. Even for Dot, that was extraordinarily efficient. "Excellent," she said slowly, eyeing her with the look that always made her blurt out whatever she was trying not to say. True to form, her companion lasted about thirty seconds before spilling like a cup of coffee.

"It's just – I know you're going out with the inspector tonight, Miss – which is wonderful and I'm so happy for you, don't, don't think that I'm not," she babbled, making Phryne blink again. Once Dot had adapted to Phryne's admittedly eccentric ways, she'd quickly established herself as one of the great pillars of the world: solid, level-headed, and utterly practical. _Babbling_ was not in her vocabulary.

"Dot," she said firmly, cutting the girl off mid-word. "Take a breath," she added with gently, watching with amusement as the girl turned red while simultaneously trying to apologize.

Ah. This must have something to do with Hugh; it was the only thing that had proven able to fluster her.

"Were you and Hugh wanting to go out this evening?" Phryne asked with a smile, forbearing to tease her companion, who stared at her in slack-jawed amazement for several seconds before she blushed. With fond exasperation in her voice, Dot demanded, "Just once, Miss, could you not deduce something?"

Phryne laughed and gestured her to the table in the sitting room. Dot poured her a glass of champagne as she sat, then settled herself in the other chair.

"Oh, Dot," Phryne sighed, taking a sip before looking at the girl. "Of course you can go out with Hugh. You never have to ask for that. Ever," she continued more seriously, making sure her companion understood that Phryne meant every word. The young man so obviously adored her and she was just as good for him, slowly shoring up his confidence while teaching him that non-traditional wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Phryne would do everything in her power to facilitate the match.

"So, what time is he going to arrive?" she inquired, taking a long drink of the superb vintage in her glass. Dot, having recovered with her usual aplomb, gave her a look that was a combination of affectionate and vexed. "He said he'd be here around 7:30," she said with a touch of exasperation, though it was overshadowed by fondness.

"Excellent," Phryne breathed. "Then help me with my hair and at least get me _into_ my dress, and we'll get you ready and on your way. Jack will be here at eight, so once I get started, I'll be fine. What dress did you bring?"

Dot started to say something, changed her mind, studied Phryne carefully for a minute, then smiled and answered, "The copper and blue split dress, Miss."

"Good choice," she replied approvingly. "Well, let's get started. By the time I'm done with you, Hugh won't know what hit him."

* * *

Phryne did so love being right. Hugh had blushed on seeing her, but his jaw dropped when Dot stepped into the sitting room (which was proof enough of his feelings, Phryne mused. There were very few men who could not notice her, especially when she was dressed for effect, but Hugh always and only ever had eyes for Dot.). She made a heroic effort and held back most of her amusement as she sent the two of them on their way, watching with fond approval as Hugh started to offer his arm, then changed his mind and took Dot's hand instead.

Ah, young love. It was so wonderful to see . . . and so entertaining to watch. But observing Dot and Hugh made Phryne feel a little nostalgic for those days of innocence and youthful adoration.

And then Jack arrived for her.

The long, slow gaze he swept from her feet to her eyes made heat blossom in her belly. Oh, but this was so much better. Boys were fun to play with and you couldn't have a man without them going through the process . . . but the confidence of a grown man was more alluring than the sweetness of a hundred boys. Especially since men could be sweet too, as evidenced by Jack bowing over her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

"You're beautiful," he said sincerely, his eyes warm with appreciation.

"Thank you," she replied with equal sincerity. Though she greatly enjoyed men and being enjoyed by them, she had to admit it was . . . nice . . . to be looked at with simple admiration instead of the assessing gaze of a would-be lover.

He offered her his arm and she accepted it after gathering her purse and pulling the door shut. In perfect step, they headed down the hall, though Phryne was a tad surprised to see that they weren't walking to the lobby doors. Instead, Jack moved in a side direction, where the soft clanking of dishes and the low buzz of overlapping conversations told Phryne their aim was the hotel restaurant.

The _maître d'hôtel_ met them at the door with a murmured 'good evening' and escorted them to a small table tucked away in the side corner, seating Phryne and lighting both waiting candles before vanishing. Jack looked a touch startled as he sank down in his own chair, and she laughed softly.

"It's the hallmark of a good _maître d'hôtel, _Jack_,_" she told him. "Their job is to ascertain the dining experience we're looking for, seat us appropriately to that desire, and get a server to us as soon as humanly possible, with the minimal amount of fuss."

As though her words were magic, a tall young man dressed in the traditional black and white of formal serving staff appeared at their table.

"Would _mademoiselle_ and _monsieur_ care for some wine to start off with?" he asked in a smooth, well-modulated voice. Phryne looked at Jack, who nodded but said nothing, leaving the choice to her.

"Yes, I believe we will," she answered. "We'll start with two glasses of Vosne-Romanée, please."

The waiter looked pleased. "Excellent choice, _mademoiselle_," he murmured, offering a slight bow before he, too, vanished.

"I wonder how much training that takes," Jack mused, bringing Phryne's attention back to him.

"Training?" she asked curiously, folding her hands in front of her.

"To vanish like that," he elaborated, looking up. "That could be extremely useful in my – our – line of work."

Phryne nodded. "Yes, it would," she concurred before looking down. This was the first time she'd felt awkward around Jack since – since that first case, really. He'd been prickly for a while after, and she admittedly had a habit of waltzing in to his crime scenes like a freight train, but they'd never really been uncomfortable with each other. She didn't like it.

The waiter returning with their drinks brought a welcome reprieve and she looked up a tad too eagerly. If the boy noticed, he said nothing, merely set both glasses down with care and produced a menu with a flourish. Phryne reached out to accept it and paused, considering. More than anything, she wanted to get back on an even keel with Jack, and what better way than to poke his sensibilities with a stick?

"Do you trust me, Jack?" she purred, meeting his eyes in faint challenge. He said nothing for a few seconds, tilting his head and searching her gaze before offering that half-smile she'd come to cherish and nodding.

"Of course," he affirmed, his voice holding his own dare.

Simultaneously delighted and relieved, Phryne gestured the server down and murmured their order in his ear, watching her inspector out of the corner of her eye. He still looked relaxed, but a slight tick of his jaw gave away his uncertainty. He wasn't nearly as calm as he would have her believe.

Good. That put them in the same boat.

The waiter vanished again, leaving Phryne and Jack watching each other. After several seconds, she cleared her throat and reached for her glass, smiling as he did the same. Raising it in a toast, she said, "To . . . resolutions," and waited for his reaction. Without hesitation, he touched his glass to hers and repeated her toast, his voice a little huskier than normal.

They had both taken a few sips before he set his glass down, leaned forward, and captured her eyes. "What now?" he asked quietly, putting himself in her hands the way he had so many times before.

Having considered this earlier, Phryne said, "Shall we get the case out of the way? I'm sure there are things you need to know."

A shadow crossed his face at that, but it was fleeting and she didn't have time to ask before he replied.

"Well, that depends," he started, taking a longer drink. "Did you see or hear anything after you got to the warehouse?"

She hadn't been expecting that and it took her a minute to redirect her thoughts. "Nothing pertinent," she said with a sigh.

His expression unreadable, he nodded. "So, everything in your case file up to you going to the warehouse is accurate, and you have nothing to add after with respect to the slave ring?"

His voice was as expressionless as his face and it was making Phryne nervous. She would freely admit that going alone had been foolish, but she'd had no alternative. Jack hadn't been speaking to her, Hugh would have gone to Jack because he had to, and the local police would have either not believed her or chosen to start from scratch, which would have taken time none of the abductees had.

Slowly, she shook her head, watching him carefully. In her experience, this type of calm was generally followed by a highly controlled explosion, so she was beyond surprised when he only nodded again and blew out a deep breath, leaning back a little.

"Good," he said with blatant relief. "Then that's all I need until we get back to Melbourne."

As if to punctuate his statement, he drained his glass and then met her eyes almost defiantly. Before either of them could speak, their waiter appeared, topped off both glasses, and disappeared, which broke the moment and pulled a soft laugh from Phryne at the pained look on Jack's face.

"We can ask where the waiters are trained if you like," she offered with a smile. The disgruntled expression she got in reply made her laugh again before she leaned back, her mirth fading as she prepared herself for the conversation they had to have. He met her gaze with equal seriousness, straightening in his chair. A few beats of silence ticked by, doing nothing for the tension, until Phryne abruptly ran out of patience.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said in exasperation, taking his hand and squeezing it, hoping to convey the depths of her sincerity. "I'm sorry, Jack," she told him quietly, forcing herself to hold his gaze and hating the surprise she saw. "You had – have – legitimate concerns and I completely ignored them because I . . . "

She had to pause and take a drink before continuing; admitting one's own fault was never easy, and so much was depending on the outcome of this.

"I ignored them because I was being selfish," she said in a rush, boldly holding his gaze as she condemned herself. He looked stunned, his jaw actually dropping, and she huffed out a bitter laugh.

"Shocking, I know," she said, her voice sharp with anger that wasn't for him. "The way you – I understand why you did what did," she continued, looking away from him, "and I'm more sorry than I can express that I let things get to that point."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sounds of their neighboring diners.

"Thank you," he finally said, catching her eyes and holding them. "I'll gladly accept, but only if you'll do the same for me . . . and for the same reason."

They stared at each some more (really, it was becoming ridiculous, Phryne thought in vexation. At this rate, they might get to the point by the end of next week.).

"Oh, to hell with it," Jack said irritably, making her jump a little. "Phryne, I —"

And the arrival of their food stopped that train mid-track. Phryne actually had to put her napkin in front of her month to hide her completely unsuitable giggle; poor Jack looked like he was two steps away from a coronary. Showing the same psychic intuition Mr Butler was possessed of, their server picked up on the atmosphere and said not a word as he laid down plates, topped off glasses, and vanished. They watched each other again before Phryne, with a mental shrug, took a bite. It had been several hours since she'd last eaten and she was quite starving.

Jack blinked, looked at his plate, and shrugged before picking up his own fork. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Jack put his food aside, took a long drink of his wine, and cleared his throat. Phryne finished the bite she currently held before pushing her plate aside as well and looking expectantly at him.

"You know, it's funny," he started quietly, his voice filled with an odd combination of regret and wry humour. "I've imagined this conversation so many times, but it was always a screaming row – complete with thrown glass – before we both stormed off and one of us moved to the continent."

The mental image teased a soft laugh from her throat; she could see it clear as day.

"So I'm glad we're not doing that," he added, his smile fading. "But I have some things I need to say, Phryne, and I ask that you let me get it out. Otherwise, we'll be here until sometime next year."

As she had been thinking precisely that, Phryne could only nod . . . and try to hide her fear.

"The first thing – the most _important_ thing – is that I love you, Phryne. Deeply, desperately, passionately, all those things that you always laugh off when you hear them on the radio or, or read about them. But I do," he said fiercely. "And I want you to remember that."

Stunned, Phryne could only stare at him. Never in a million years would she have imagined her calm, unflappable, tightly-controlled detective inspector would willingly show so much emotion – especially not in such a public place.

He treated her silence as – well, not natural, but expected, and continued. "As I'm sure you've worked out for yourself, I was . . . when I thought you had died in that motorcar crash, it – the pain – was excruciating. But what tipped me over the edge, for lack of a better word, was your cavalier attitude afterwards. Through the rest of the case, really, and that's what . . . that was my breaking point."

Phryne physically had to bite her tongue to keep quiet, but she did, even as remorse began to rise. She had surmised as much, but it was still difficult to hear.

"One of the things I love most about you is your independence and zest for life, your daring, the way you live each minute to the fullest. You relish every second and don't waste a moment and that draws me like a moth to a flame.

"But," he went on quietly, sadness creeping into his voice, "you're so damned determined to be independent that you show a complete and total disregard for yourself, to the point that you terrify me. The reason I misheard Hugh's message that day is because —"

The look in his eyes made Phryne flinch; she found herself wondering, with a touch of hysteria, how he could feel everything she saw and still be rational.

"God help me, Phryne, I'd been expecting it almost from the moment I met you."

He stopped there and took a deep, shuddering breath before draining his glass in one swallow. When the server did his appearing act, Jack refused a refill, requesting instead two glasses of water. The young man looked startled but obeyed, returning with two ice waters almost immediately. Looking almost nervous, Jack took a long pull on his before pushing it to the side and fixing her with a serious look that was heavily shadowed by guilt.

"Now, this is where it gets interesting," he said with a wry smile that faded even as it formed. "You see, I never said anything about how much some of what you did bothered me, and so it kept building until . . . well. You know. And because I can occasionally be both stubborn and idiotic, I got upset because you didn't read my mind and know precisely what was upsetting me. Worse, you kept being flippant about those very things, almost as though it were on purpose."

That was too much and Phryne took a deep breath, but Jack cut her off before she could say anything.

"Ah! You promised," he said with just a hint of gentle teasing in his tone. "And yes, I know perfectly well that I was being unreasonable. But I'm only human, and that's how I feel. Was I wrong in the way I went about expressing myself? Yes."

Another long drink, and this time she saw his hands tremble.

"But my feelings?" he continued in a steady voice. "I won't apologize for that. Accidentally walking into an armed robbery is one thing; going out of your way to walk into that armed robbery . . . that's something altogether different. And you, Phryne . . . you like to go out of your way."

Speechless, Phryne just looked at him. It had been so long since anyone had really cared that much about her that she'd forgotten to take it into consideration. Also, she'd not once thought that Jack felt so deeply or so strongly about her. It was no wonder he'd walked away, though she did have her own issues with that. Reading her mind (as he so often did, to her mingled frustration and relief), his mouth quirked in a tiny smile as he gestured to her. She was charmed until she registered the subtle way he braced himself, and then she was horrified. He was that afraid of her reaction.

Phryne suddenly felt a very strong urge to drive to Rosie's home and beat her about the head with an umbrella.

"Dear Jack," she breathed tenderly, reaching out to take his hand and hating that he hesitated before curling his fingers around hers. "That's a perfectly understandable reaction and one I'm certainly not going to condemn."

The bewilderment in his eyes drew a commiserating smile before she went on. "I know I can be reckless, as you put it, though I don't always do it on purpose. But I've been on my own for so long that I don't really know how to factor other people in."

Jack's eyes lit with hope and his hand tightened on hers. "Work with me, Phryne, that's all I ask," he implored her, his voice ragged. "I don't want to change you, not for the world, but I —"

"Shh," she interrupted tenderly, feeling a little of the tension start to ebb. "We won't work it out now, love; we'll have to make it up as we go along."

His eyes went wide in astonishment as his breath caught and Phryne mentally frowned, going back through what she'd just said to cause that reaction. When she realized, she gave him a brilliant smile and said, "Yes, Jack. I love you. Deeply, dangerously, completely."

The joy that suffused his face sparked an answering warmth in Phryne and she took his other hand, her smile widening as he latched on like he was afraid of falling. And whether it was the release of tension or their natural chemistry, Phryne couldn't say, but the air was suddenly heavy with desire that was never far from the surface. In an effort to keep things safe for public viewing, she dryly observed, "And I have to say, Shakespeare didn't know what he was talking about."

Jack snickered and released one hand, his eyes bright with the droll humour she so adored, and took an absentminded bite of his dinner. "I should arrest you for blasphemy, you know. Doubting The Bard."

"Ooh . . . handcuffs," Phryne riposted, rejoicing in their natural rhythm. It felt so good to be back in step with him.

"Miss Fisher," he hissed, twin flags of red staining his cheeks even as a speculative look crossed his face. Phryne made a mental note of it, but reluctantly drew them back to the subject at hand. The sooner they got it done, the sooner they could get on with their lives.

"Another time," she murmured, pulling her hand free of his and taking a sip of her own water. He frowned at the loss of contact and sat back, giving her a curious look from hooded eyes.

She swallowed before speaking, nervousness making her throat dry. "The real crux of my anger with you, Jack, isn't because you decided you didn't want to risk becoming romantically involved with me," she started slowly, choosing her words with extreme care. He drew a sharp breath in through his nose but said nothing, waiting patiently for her to elaborate. After another sip, she did.

"I can't say I was thrilled with the way you went about it, but I understand your reasoning – and I also admit my own culpability. I could have – should have, perhaps – gone after you that night. Or given it a few days and then come to see you."

He looked wistful and she nodded, accepting her error in judgment. "But I was hurt and angry, and feeling self-righteous, so I just let you go. That's a mistake I won't make again. But what I cannot abide, Jack, what I _will not_ abide, is you completely removing yourself from my life."

Now he looked startled, but Phryne was past caring. He had to understand what he'd done, or it could happen again. And she wasn't sure she'd survive that. Not after everything that had happened.

"I could have lived without the prospect of you as a lover, Jack," she said firmly, refusing to let him look away from her. "I was far from overjoyed at the thought, but it would have eventually been fine. But losing you as a friend . . . it was unbearable. And I will not do that again. If we decide tonight that being together is . . . isn't an option, then I want your word that we stay friends. Nothing less will satisfy me."

He looked at her steadily for several long minutes, his expression betraying nothing, and she swallowed again. What she was asking wasn't completely fair, but when had life ever been fair? She wanted all of him, but if that didn't happen, she was determined to at least have some of him. As she'd discovered these past two months, the alternative didn't bear repeating.

When he finally stirred, she ruthlessly suppressed the sudden spike of fearful hope (or was it the other way around?) and somehow managed to calmly meet his eyes.

"Dance with me."

It took her a full minute to really process the words and when she had, Phryne actually gaped at him. "What?" she asked weakly, unable to come up with anything else.

"Dance with me," he repeated, his eyes burning with an intensity she hadn't seen before.

"I – I don't understand," she finally said, completely at a loss for the first time in years.

"I want this one moment with you before everything changes," he said almost harshly, his gaze boring into hers. "Whatever happens, I'll be there as long as you want me, be it friend, partner, or lover, but right now, I want to hold you just because. No expectations, no regrets, just you and me, Jack and Phryne, dancing because we can."

She looked down and took a shaky breath before meeting his gaze again, feeling her eyes burn with an intensity to match his, letting the relieved happiness at his answer flow through her. She wasn't going to lose him.

In reply, she held out her hand and he took it as he stood, drawing her out of her chair and leading her with easy strides to the small dance floor set up in the adjacent corner. She had on occasion wondered what kind of dancer Jack would be; as it turned out, he danced like he did everything else: easily, confidently, and commandingly. He led because that's how dances were designed, but when she wanted to go a different direction, he quite willingly obliged her.

And Phryne found herself wondering what she'd been so afraid of. In all the time she'd known Jack, he'd never once tried to control her. Rein her in, yes, but that was at the beginning of their acquaintance and even then, he hadn't been a tyrant about it. And once they'd found a rhythm, a partnership had been born, one that had grown and thrived until their names were enough to make some people rethink whatever crime (or stupidity, depending on how you looked at it) they were about to commit.

But Phryne knew it wouldn't be that easy. Jack wouldn't smother her or try to take over her life the way René had, but he was – not old-fashioned, perhaps, but a man who put great stock in the formality of things. But not even for someone she loved the way she loved Jack would Phryne submit herself to the bonds of marriage. She couldn't even bring herself to contemplate it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" came his husky murmur in her ear, making her involuntarily shiver at the sensation. Forcing a smile, she lifted her head from his shoulder and replied, "Nothing. Just . . . woolgathering."

"Hmm," he hummed. "Are the sheep black?"

The question was so unexpected – not to mention accurate – that she was unable to control her reaction and pulled back from his warm embrace, which thankfully coincided with the end of the song. He was watching her with amusement, that damned crooked smile back on his lips. Feeling a sudden need to shake him, Phryne leaned forward and brushed her mouth across his before turning to go back to their table, letting her fingers drag down his arm.

It only took two strides before he had caught up to her, his hand falling into place at the small of her back. Phryne closed her eyes against the rush of desire that always rose when their flesh touched (it was a good thing that the bulk of their interactions took place at crime scenes where gloves were required, or nothing would ever get done) and let him pull out her chair. As she settled herself, he trailed his fingers across her shoulder and then moved to his seat, catching her gaze as he sank down. For another few seconds they stared at each other, both of them terrified (though hiding it well, it must be said) of upsetting the delicate balance they'd achieved.

"It may surprise you —"

"Jack, I want to —"

Their words overlapped as they both started to speak and they stopped in surprise before Phryne shook her head and laughed, leaning back in her and picking up her wineglass. She preferred that Jack speak first, for obvious reasons. He eyed her a touch warily before taking a drink of water and obliging her.

"You might be surprised to know that I've been thinking about this for some time," he said slowly, obviously taking great care with his words. "And I've come to several conclusions."

In spite of herself, Phryne tensed. It was here. The moment of truth had arrived.

Apparently oblivious to her reaction, Jack took a single deep breath and laid his heart in her hands.

"Though I would deeply love to marry you," he told her, his eyes never wavering, "I know it's not something you want. And I have found that I can live with that, though if you ever change your mind, all you have to do is say so."

The relief that flooded her body left Phryne a little light-headed. He understood. Her eyes sparkling, she gave him a bright smile and reached for his hand. He let her take it, but the happiness she was expecting didn't come. Rather, he appeared braced for an attack. Confused, Phryne tilted her head, but he spoke before she could ask.

"What I cannot live without," he said with a deep conviction, his eyes filled the same resolve, "is your fidelity. If we do this, Phryne, then we do this all the way. Just the thought of you being with me and having other men . . . "

He broke off and shook his head, looking away. For her part, Phryne was neither surprised nor offended. She'd always known that if things with Jack truly became that serious, he would require monogamy. And she had discovered that she was fine with that. In fact, prior to their separation, she hadn't had a man in almost four months (and despite what he thought, she had been well-aware of his unhappiness at finding out she had taken Warrick to her bed), and the lack had neither harmed her nor inconvenienced her. It hadn't even been all that frustrating because she and Jack had been spending so much of their time together (also, tellingly, was her eagerness to leave the boxer in her bedroom to answer Jack's call; had the man actually been in her bed, she still would have gone). It was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to ask and one she was more than willing to grant.

If only he'd look at her.

She started to say something, but changed her mind. She was tired of talking.

Instead, she slipped off a shoe and slowly, sensuously, ran her foot up the side of his calf. He almost fell off the chair and caught himself on the edge of the table, looking at her with heartbreaking hope.

"Phryne?" he whispered in an achingly uncertain voice.

She gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence and said, "What? You said if we do this, we do it all the way."

He nodded slowly, his death grip on the table easing.

"Then tell me, Jack Robinson: when have you ever known me to do something less than all the way?" she asked gently, giving him a tender smile. Understanding broke over him like a storm and the unfettered joy in his eyes made her heart soar. She could think of nothing to say that wouldn't completely ruin the moment, so Phryne picked up her water glass and smiled as he immediately did the same.

And in perfect accord, without needing to say a word, they toasted their union.

* *  
_tbc_

* * *

An Author's Note (shocking, I know): a few days after she finished betaing Devil in the Light for me, Firebird9 told me that she was participating in an event to bring awareness to Human Trafficking and asked that I mention that here because DitL is about that very subject (coincidence, meet serendipity and DIE). So I immediately said 'provide me with scripting and I shall blast to the world!' So, here's a - call it a Reader's Digest summary as provided by Firebird9 to raise awareness.

'This story is (obviously) a work of fiction, but the reality is that human trafficking and forced prostitution are real crimes that are still happening around the world today. According to the charity Operation Mobilisation, which works to assist victims of the sex trade, internationally an estimated 1 million women and children are trafficked for sex every year. Almost every nation on earth, including our own 'civilised' Western nations, is either an origin point or a destination for these victims. Many countries are both. OM estimates that, at any one time, 27 million women and children worldwide are being held as sex slaves in brothels and private homes. Unlike the heroes and heroines of this story, most of us will never be in a position to help them. But we can remember that they exist.'

Let us never forget and keep the victims of this horrific crime in our prayers.


	7. From Here to Eternity

I just wanted to say 'thank you' to everyone who has read, reviewed, and favorited this story. There truly aren't words to express how much I appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you thought of my idea of Jack and Phryne's journey. I apologize for not saying this sooner, but ffnet's formatting hates me (and it is mutual) and I already had all the chapters uploaded. The manners my mother so assiduously beat into me finally kicked in, though, and so here are my deepest, most sincere thanks to you. And, now that I've blubbered, I present the final chapter. Enjoy!

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Apparently, hashing out the emotional issues of love, loss, relationships, and the inner workings thereof worked up quite an appetite, because they both demolished their food (lukewarm though it was) with indecent haste. As Phryne finished her last bite, their waiter appeared with a dessert menu. She was tempted but Jack shook his head and requested the check, his eyes never leaving hers.

After he'd put the bill on his account, looking both surprisingly nervous and unusually intense, Jack offered to escort Phryne to her room. She gave him a sweet smile for his chivalry and accepted, resting her hand delicately in the crook of his arm. The walk was silent, but not uncomfortable . . . although the heightened awareness between them was positively delicious. A quick glance up told her that Jack was not immune to the feeling and she smiled with sensual anticipation.

She was so focused on not climbing him like a ladder that their arrival at her door took her completely by surprise and she nearly walked into it. Jack steadied her with a hand at the small of her back and they both went still at the feel of his flesh touching hers. In an effort to ease the tension, Phryne looked up him with a deprecating laugh, only to have her breath catch in her throat. His eyes had gone black with desire and he was taking the kind of deep, controlled breaths that she'd only ever seen on those who were at the absolute limit of their endurance.

(_Come on, Jack. Just one gaudy night._

_If you really want a Roman soldier . . ._

_. . . then I'll take it from here)_

They stood there for an eternity of desire before Phryne broke it by fumbling to unlock and open the door (it was that, or take him on the floor, which would murder not only her back but one of a very select few items of clothing she intended to wear again). Jack said nothing and made no effort to move away from her, deliberately letting the heat of passion build – and it was, quite simply, one of the most enticing things she'd ever felt.

At which point, the door finally came open and nearly spilled her to the floor. Jack followed in one smooth motion, keeping her on her feet by curling a hand around the back of her neck and sealing his mouth to hers. The sensation was so electrifying that Phryne actually thought she heard a bomb go off – until a heavy _thud_ made her realize that Jack had kicked the door closed.

Moaning deeply, she tangled her hands in his perfectly-arranged hair, delighting at finally being able to dishevel him, and kissed him back with a passion that left them both breathless. A few seconds later, Jack had pressed her against a wall and was sliding both hands into her own thick black strands, holding her still so he could map every inch of her mouth. Reveling in the sheer joy of being able to touch him as she'd wanted for so, so long, Phryne skimmed a hand down to cup his cheek; the feel of his mouth moving against her palm was beyond erotic and she swallowed his approving moan.

Panting, he broke away and dropped his head to nuzzle the hollow of her shoulder as she played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Her reward was a full-bodied shudder and moist, hot kisses being mouthed up her throat. Gasping in delight, Phryne let her head fall back against the wall as she grabbed his upper arms in a desperate attempt to remain standing. A husky laugh made her shiver again, before he caught her earlobe in his teeth and gave a not _quite _gentle tug, which earned him a keening cry of pleasure.

A gentle kiss was feathered after the bite and then he drew back, looking at her like she was the sun and he was a blind man given sight. Desire had heated his eyes to a brilliant amber and they were so full of love that Phryne thought she could drown in it. In _him_. It was too much and not enough and so Phryne did the only thing she could: she drew him into her arms and just held him, murmuring soft 'I love yous' into his ear, his hair, the corner of his mouth, everywhere she could reach, until he took a single shuddering breath and released her with obvious reluctance.

Smiling with satisfaction at the sight of his hair falling in strands over his forehead, she rubbed her thumb across his jaw and whispered his name, aching with need. His eyes went almost gold and he leaned back in, kissing her so deeply her knees turned to sand, only to pull back when she reached for him – but only as far as the length of a breath. As their hearts began to beat in tandem, their shared need fed their anticipation until the air itself sizzled. Jack suddenly leaned in and brushed his hot breath over her lips. But he didn't touch her, and Phryne's tenuous control audibly snapped. Lunging forward, she curled her leg over his hip and twined her arms around his neck, taking his mouth with her own fierce demand. He willingly submitted and she pressed even closer, trying to touch him everywhere but only succeeding in further enflaming them both.

Until the feel of a hand on her calf jarred her out of the moment. It was a split-second hesitation and the sensation was already fading, but Jack broke their kiss and backed away from her so quickly she staggered. With a muttered oath, he caught her shoulder to steady her and then took another step back, looking stricken.

"Jack," Phryne objected, reaching out as her body cried out at the loss of him.

"No, I'm – I just need a minute," he stuttered, looking everywhere but at her. Frowning, she studied his expression, trying desperately to understand how 'making love against the wall' had so quickly degenerated into 'a distance of three feet must be maintained at all times.' Unless . . .

"Jack," she said softly, but firmly. He paused before looking at her, and the guilt on his face was the confirmation she needed.

"It's all right, love," she told him with complete sincerity. "It didn't happen, you did nothing wrong, and I most definitely want this," she finished, willing him to believe her. Her heart sank when he shook his head and backed up another step.

"If that were true, Phryne, you wouldn't have flinched," he replied in a voice thick with shame. She had no answer for that, because her reaction had been a complete surprise to her, and mentally cursed when he took her silence for agreement.

"I should go," he told her quietly, reluctantly, before starting to the door. She took a half-step after him, his name falling from her lips in a soft plea, and he paused. They stood in that tableau for what seemed like forever before Jack took a sudden sharp breath and spun on his heel, his eyes glittering with unexpected grief . . . and a violence that alarmed her even though she knew full well it wasn't meant for her.

Which begged the question.

"What is it?" she asked gently, her worry spiking at his involuntary wince. "You look like you're about to do physical harm to someone, but that's not your style." Stony silence was her answer and Phryne had a split second (or four) of doubt, but carried on. This was definitely important. "Come on, Jack," she coaxed, shifting a small step closer to him. "Your reaction is — well, I'm not going to say it's an overreaction, but clearly _something_ is going on," she concluded, easing another few inches in his direction.

His silence did not get less stony, which pulled an actual frown from her. Once he'd put forth the first foot with regards to a friendship with her, by confessing both his attraction to her and his marriage — and once she'd proven her understanding of and respect for both — he had shown himself more likely to confess personal matters than police business (a situation, it must be said, that she found both amusing and frustrating in equal measure). So this cold, unyielding silence was unnerving. It stood to reason that whatever was wrong was related to the 'police' side of things, but what they'd just been doing had most assuredly NOT been professional.

(the betting pool at City South aside, of course)

A defeated sigh broke her train of thought and she looked expectantly at her inspector, offering him a supportive smile despite her worry . . . and her burning curiosity. A bitter – well, she couldn't really call it a 'laugh' – met her smile before he abruptly started talking.

And Phryne Fisher found herself rendered speechless for the first time in – oh, however the hell long it had been.

It spilled out of him in a rush of vicious self-loathing: indirectly finding out that Nelson had been with her at the time of the raid; his savage approval at seeing the damage done to the other man; the horrified realization of what his state of undress had to mean; the sheer, unbridled rage that came within a hairsbreadth of killing the bastard; the unexpected but despicably welcome offer that his fellow officers had made; and finally, his unwilling return to sanity and the knowledge that he had no choice but to let her attacker live.

Aching for him, Phryne only realized that she was wrapped in his arms when he was done laying his soul at her feet and the feel of his chest moving against her back tapered off. Silence reigned in the absolute stillness of the room. Phryne felt no revulsion at Jack or his revelations, but seeing the guilt and recrimination he was drowning in, she didn't dare say so. In his current state, it would do nothing but push him away, because he wouldn't let himself trust her feelings, and – damn!

_That's _why her flinch had sparked such a powerful reaction!

He thought she was secretly traumatized by Nelson's attack and since his touch had triggered the response, it followed that she must be afraid of him. Had the situation been less dire, she would have rolled her eyes in exasperation at the thought processes of the male mind. But it wasn't, and sorrow was the overriding emotion she was currently feeling, because this wasn't something she could soothe. All she could offer was understanding and hope it would be enough to break through Jack's well-fortified wall of self-loathing.

She started to pull away from him but reconsidered after a moment's thought. Her touch might be the only thing that kept him grounded in the here-and-now with her. Instead, she laid her hand over his and absently started caressing his wrist while she quietly said, "Do you remember Yvonne Standish, Jack?"

There was a startled beat of silence before she felt him nod, his chin brushing her hair.

"And do you remember how she lured you out to that apple grove with the intention of making you her final sacrifice for her demon summoning?"

The silence was longer this time, and tense.

"When I realized what she was after – and who – I followed you out there, hoping, _praying_ the entire time that I wouldn't be too late. And when I saw you, unconscious, bloody, and tied to that tree . . . the only thing that kept me from tearing her heart out with my bare hands was Hugh. I don't think he knows that, but by getting between us, he saved her life. It was a near thing," she admitted softly. "But I was terrified for you, so she got a reprieve."

This time the pause was hers, as she fought to control her emotions. Behind her, Jack was perfectly still. He could have been a marble statue but for the heat emanating from him.

"But I promise you, Jack, that if she had succeeded, no power on this earth would have stopped me from taking her life in payment for yours."

His voice breaking, her lover breathed her name.

She swallowed hard before continuing. "And yes, Jack, it's the exact same thing. You aren't the only one who's allowed to be protective, or to get angry when the people you love are threatened. I'm sure you recall Murdoch Foyle."

A jerky nod accompanied the sudden tension in his frame and her hands were engulfed in his tight grip.

"Do you know why I didn't stab him through his non-existent heart?" she asked, the memory filling her voice with bitterness. "It wasn't because you ran in like the guardian angel you are, and it wasn't because I knew Jane was still alive. I didn't kill him because the one thing he feared more than anything else was a common, meaningless death. And I knew that you and I would make sure he got one."

Phryne closed her eyes against his anguished moan, but when he dropped his head to hers and she felt a cool wetness, it was too much. She turned in his arms and leaned against him, taking his strength and offering her own while her tears mingled with his.

They stayed like that for what must have been forever before Jack finally shifted back a bit, enough that he could look into her eyes, and he did just that as his hands fell to her waist. The emotional revelations had exhausted her, but Phryne still found the strength to hope that it had been enough. When she met his gaze, her heart lifted, because that overwhelming darkness was gone. There were still shadows – and always would be, for Jack, too, had things that would permanently haunt him – but the self-hatred was fading, as was the guilt.

Abruptly realizing that they'd been staring at each other in total silence for going on – well, too long, Phryne endeavored to bring them back to an even keel by wryly observing, "Good heavens. We've just broken a record."

Jack's eyes darkened with confusion as he tilted his head and she smiled as she delivered the punchline. "We've just spent five minutes without bickering about . . . well, anything. Do you think Hugh would faint if he knew?"

His laughter was a balm to her soul, for it was light and held only the faintest traces of bitterness, and she laughed with him, cuddling close and simply enjoying the feeling of him holding her. But too soon, he shifted and pulled out of her arms. Phryne bit back her protest and instead looked at him expectantly. The crooked smile that she always wanted to kiss right off his face greeted her and he brushed her hair back with gentle fingers.

"You are the most amazing woman," he said with such tender understanding that she wanted to cry. "And it shouldn't, but knowing you're a tigress when it comes to the people you love really does help. But we both need to come to terms with what happened today, that much is clear," he continued before she could even think to say anything. "And we've proven in a rather spectacular fashion that it should not be done together. Else we'll bring down the building."

Phryne wanted so badly to argue – but what Nelson had tried had obviously deeply affected Jack as well as herself, and she knew all too well that trying to ignore that kind of response was a recipe for disaster. Until she – they – came to terms with the day's events, they wouldn't be able to go forward.

So she nodded with a reluctance that Jack matched, and his smile turned regretful. "So I'm going while I still can, and we'll talk tomorrow."

"All right," she whispered, stepping completely away from him. He watched her intently for another minute or so before nodding and grabbing the doorknob. "Tomorrow," he promised huskily before stepping into the hall.

To her surprise, he didn't pull the door shut behind him, so she walked over to do it herself, frowning in bewilderment – only for Jack to storm back in, kiss her with an aching, breathtaking passion, and whisper, "I love you," into her mouth. He was gone before she could think of moving and Phryne stared blankly at the now-closed door for several minutes before rousing herself with a brisk shake of her head and wandering slowly around the sitting room.

She was bitterly disappointed that they weren't making love tonight . . . but just as she knew her detective inspector inside and out, so too did he know her. And loathe though she was to admit it, he was right: even if it was subconscious, the assault had apparently rattled her.

'Assault.' Phryne let out a soft, harsh laugh. There she went, proving Jack's point. It wasn't just an assault. Nelson had tried to rape her. That thrice-cursed, miserable **bastard** had tried to rape her. He'd been going to take her body without her permission and enjoy it, and she couldn't have prevented it.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she let the realization sink in and Phryne collapsed into a chair, hunching over as small shivers wracked her frame. She'd refused to admit, even to herself, just how close Nelson had come and the knowledge made her nauseous. Swallowing hard, Phryne sat up straight and poured a glass of water, draining it in two long swallows. For just a moment she wanted Jack, but in the next second she was grateful he'd gone: had he witnessed this, it would have devastated him and she might have lost him for good.

Recognition of that fact solidified her determination: Wayne Nelson hadn't succeeded earlier and she'd be damned if she let him win now.

Phryne had helped more than a few rape victims during the war and she had seen some of them start on the road to recovery, so she knew that the first step was recognizing what had actually happened. Pouring herself another glass of water, she moved to the chaise by the window and, after curling up in the corner and taking a few sips, she stared with unseeing eyes at the moonlit night and let herself remember.

It was brutal, the recollection. But by remembering, she achieved acceptance, because she wasn't in that room anymore. She'd gotten out, he hadn't succeeded, and he couldn't touch her again. On every level, Phryne had won. She'd found Iris, she'd stopped a slave ring, she and Jack were in love and they had both (finally) actually acknowledged it . . . God help her, she might actually owe Nelson a 'thank you' note.

It was definitely macabre, but the thought made her giggle and just like that, she knew it would be all right. It had been a horrifying, frightening experience, and it might take some time to fully assimilate, but she was the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher and she'd never given into fear in her life, not when facing Murdoch Foyle, nor when she was elbow-deep in the worst that the war could throw at her. Wayne Nelson certainly wasn't going do it.

A glance at the clock told her it was after two and a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Smiling, feeling a different kind of peace settle over her, Phryne rose and stretched, then carefully removed her new favourite gown, Seeing the many places it was crumpled from Jack's hands widened her smile to an extremely satisfied grin. She'd let him have tonight, but tomorrow . . .

Well. She felt rather sorry for the people in the rooms immediately adjacent to hers.

* * *

Jack woke irritatingly early the next morning, somewhat disoriented and not particularly well-rested. It took him a few minutes to remember why he was sprawled alone on a decadently-comfortable bed, but once he did, sorrow, anger, and regret bloomed in concert in his heart. In the warm light of a brilliant morning, he had to wonder at his stupidity in leaving Phryne last night. God knew, it had taken every last ounce of control he had left (and a few from next week), but he simply hadn't been able to believe that she truly wanted sex not even twenty-four hours after nearly being —

The reminder made bile rise in his throat and he tried to swallow it down, only to end up pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the side table and downing it like a shot of whiskey. He'd come to terms with the assault itself the previous night (which, surprisingly, hadn't proved all that difficult. Maybe it was because he was used to her being in danger of one sort or another.). What Nelson had been going to _do_ . . . he passionately did not want to acknowledge it. But if he didn't face it now, he never would . . . and that meant he would never truly have her.

Even with that knowledge, it still took him two more glasses and nearly an hour to actually finish the thought.

Phryne had almost been raped. That thrice-damned, sadistic _bastard_ had put his hands on her against her will, with the intention of taking what she would never had given him, and only the loyalty of her companion and the grace of God had prevented it.

Once again, Jack regretted that he had been prevented from snapping Nelson's worthless neck with his bare hands. Oh, it wasn't like the man wouldn't hang, but the mere fact that he was alive and breathing the same air as Phryne was still enough to send fury pounding through his blood.

. . . and that was not a healthy train of thought to pursue, given that he had been in a berserker's rage not all that long ago. Jack shook his head, pushing those considerations aside, and headed for the bathroom. It was done, it was over, and he had more important things to think about.

While he indulged in a long shower, Jack finally let himself start to imagine what being with Phryne – and not just physically – would be like. How they would interact on a truly personal level, what her household would do, how work would change . . . what making love to her would be like . . .

When the tension had drained from his muscles (and the water was still hot, a fact that he made a note to commend the hotel on), he dried, shaved, and started to dress. He was in the middle of knotting his tie when a mental image of Phryne's expressive eye roll stopped him. He could hear her voice – _Really, Jack? A 3-piece suit, tie, coat, and hat when you aren't going anywhere? – _and had to laugh at himself. It was part of his armour, being fully dressed and completely buttoned up, and while she might enjoy (might? Would positively _relish_) removing those layers, he didn't think that would be the case tonight. Which was fair, he supposed. He honestly couldn't say he'd be thrilled if she put on four layers of clothes for no reason.

So the tie came off, as did the waistcoat, and he hesitated for a few minutes before rolling his sleeves up to mid-forearm. It was the most casually he'd been dressed in public for some time, and it did feel a little odd. Good, but odd.

A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn't quite ten, so Phryne likely wouldn't be up yet. Jack desperately wanted to see her, but wasn't nearly stupid enough to wake her. Instead, he grabbed the room key and headed out to get breakfast and see what amenities the hotel offered. To his disappointment, his options were a small garden maze and a moderate-sized pool. Choosing to meander through the gardens distracted him for a bit, but like virtually every other man on earth, more than ten minutes of looking at flowers was threatening to bore him into a coma, so he headed to the pool and, with a deep sigh, settled himself on a lounge that was partially shaded. Jack found a comfortable position, leaned back, and let himself drift, not thinking about anything in particular and finally, _finally_ starting to relax.

His senses suddenly sparked and he smiled. Phryne was there. Without opening his eyes, he held out his hand and waited, his smile widening when he felt her take it and settle beside him on the cushion.

"Good afternoon, Jack," she greeted him softly, squeezing his fingers. He returned the pressure and murmured, "And you," before finally looking at her, drinking in the sight of her beloved face and struggling to truly grasp the knowledge that all he had to do was ask.

She was watching him with a tenderness that took his breath away and suddenly, the temptation of her mouth was too much to withstand. Gently, giving her plenty of time to move away if she chose, Jack pulled his hand free of hers and tangled it in that luxurious black hair. He encountered no resistance as he drew her to him and their lips touched in a soft meeting of joy, relief, happiness, and banked passion.

After a few minutes, she eased back and they both drew in unsteady breaths, still watching each other. Jack was opening his mouth to say – something, he didn't know what, when Phryne, her eyes smoky with desire, bent down and captured his lips once more with an unrestrained yearning. His own passion broke free and as his craving for her heated his blood, he tugged her closer, wanting to crawl inside her and never let go. It seemed she was of the same mind, because her hand suddenly landed dangerously high on his leg, those dexterous fingers trailing fire in their wake, and he snapped. It was only a brief glimpse of the pool water that kept him from doing something stupid, like make love to her there and then, and he managed to push her away with shaking hands.

Phryne looked astonished, even as she fought to control her breathing.

"Jack . . ."

"Unless you want me to take you on this lounge, we need to adjourn to a room. Now."

This earned him a blink . . . and then a slow, wicked smile.

"Why, Inspector, I would never have guessed that you might be an exhibitionist."

It said a great deal about his life that Jack couldn't even pretend to be surprised at this . . . though it wouldn't do to let her think she had the upper hand.

"Well, Miss Fisher, I distinctly recall telling you it would be foolish to assume you'd deduced everything about me," he drawled, slowly sitting up. As she moved not an inch, this more-or-less plastered them against each other.

Perfectly willing to play the game, she gave him a saucy wink.

"So you did. Well, then, as I'd like to avoid giving your constable a heart attack —"

"I'd feel better if I thought you were being facetious."

(and how he wished he was joking)

"— did you have anything more specific in mind than 'a room?'" she purred, her eyes wide with what an unsuspecting person would have taken for innocence.

For Jack, however, this had been one of the many things he'd given serious thought to the night before.

"Given you came with an entourage, yes. Mine," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

"Jack! I like the way you think."

"The way I think. Yes, _that's_ what you like," he said with a fair amount of justifiable sarcasm, given that he was currently shackling both of her wrists with his free hand, lest she start undressing him again (the top two buttons of his shirt had mysteriously come open). He didn't have anywhere _near_ enough self-control for that. The _**Pope**_ didn't have enough control to withstand that.

"Well. One thing," she conceded easily, giving him a smouldering once-over that made him swallow. Desperate now, he grabbed the fraying threads of his control and sent God (and her) a heartfelt plea.

"Phryne. I . . . I have wanted this – you – longer than I should admit, but if you don't step back _now_, we will both be arrested for more indecency charges than can be counted. Please, love, have mercy on me for another five minutes. Then you may do with me as you will."

God help him, she actually pouted, lower lip and all. He wanted to bite it so badly it _hurt_.

"Promise?" she asked coquettishly, batting her eyelashes. But there was vulnerability in her eyes, though it was almost hidden behind the lust they were both drowning in. He couldn't ignore it, especially after yesterday, and so answered her as the man who loved her rather than the man who would be her lover.

"With every fiber of my being."

That seemed to ease her fears and earned him another wicked smile . . . coupled with another look of wide-eyed 'innocence.' He was immediately suspicious.

"In that case, Inspector Robinson, lead the way."

For good reason. Knowing Phryne, she'd start undressing in the hall and one of two things would happen: he would take her against the wall in front of God and everyone, or she'd be seen in a state of advanced undress and he'd be forced to put that man in hospital (which would lead to him being arrested and spending some considerable time in gaol, and make being alone with her a tad difficult).

"I'd rather escort you. For some unfathomable reason, Miss Fisher, I don't trust you."

A smile played on her lips as she shrugged.

"Probably wise," she conceded.

"A rarity with you," he shot back, basking in the sheer joy of bantering with her again. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

"And you love it," she stated with complete assurance, putting her hands on her hips.

"God help me, I do. But – somewhere more private, if you please, Miss Fisher," he requested formally, even as he gave her his own wicked smile.

"Oh, fine," she huffed. "But one day, Jack, I am going to make you crack."

Suddenly, he was the one standing too close, deadly serious as he grasped her shoulders.

"Indeed. And what if I were to tell you, Phryne Fisher, that that day arrived the moment I came through that door?"

He saw the remembrance in her eyes: him hesitantly entering the bathroom where she was trying to erase the stains of an unimaginably horrifying ordeal. The olive branch she had so carefully offered, his fearful skittishness in accepting it, the awareness that had settled in his chest at the understanding that if he was hers, she was his, and that wonderful feeling of finally coming home.

He nodded at her unspoken question; oh, yes, he remembered. As long as he drew breath, he'd never forget that life-saving realization. She gave him a soft smile and took his hand, clasping it between both of hers and bringing it to her lips, nuzzling his palm before placing a tender kiss on the pulse point at his wrist. Jack forgot to breathe.

"In that case, Jack Robinson, I would say 'why are we still a) outside and b) talking?'"

And they were back to playful – but Jack was done with the game. Still, she deserved an answer to that, especially since he had walked away last night.

"As always, Miss Fisher, you ask very good questions," he said with a serious edge to his voice, despite the light-hearted words. "As for the answers, I can only say that I was trying to be a gentleman."

That surprised her, he could tell, and the realization hurt. He had a sudden, overwhelming desire to find the man who had frightened her so badly and drop him in a pool of sharks . . . after cutting him a few (hundred) times with a razor. Not that he would say anything; Phryne didn't want to be protected and he understood that. He didn't particularly like it (which, in return, she recognized), but that was what compromise was all about. They'd make it work.

"Jack —"

Her admonishment recaptured his attention and he smiled wryly at her, finishing his initial thought.

"Until I realized that I was only causing us both unnecessary grief. And, because the heavens would fall if you let me lead, you came to me first."

He waited a beat before continuing, hoping to bring back her smile.

"Then we proceeded to have this rather ridiculous conversation."

He didn't get his smile; no, it was so much better than that. He got her _everything._

"Oh, come now, Jack. Haven't you heard of foreplay?"

His breath caught in his throat at the blatant seduction in her voice and the love shining from her eyes, and he gave her the only answer he could.

"My room. _Now."_

And as they entered the hotel, hand in hand with their fingers entwined, Jack had a sudden, intense vision of their future. Phryne would exasperate, captivate, and enchant him (likely on an hourly basis); he would frustrate, fascinate, and adore her (also likely on an hourly basis), and it was . . . it was going to be glorious.

He couldn't wait.

* * * *  
_finis_


End file.
